The Original Three
by tinseltown
Summary: Victoria harbors feelings for one of her best friends, Bucky Barnes, & a dangerous secret she's never told anyone. When she finds out both of her boys have died in action, she feels like her world has ended. But the world works in mysterious ways & when both men tumble back into her life, Victoria is given the chance to save & reunite them all...if she can only control herself.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So I've just finished up my first Captain America 2 story (check it out, it's called "Heading Home") but I couldn't let go of this world. These characters, these stories…they're too intriguing to step away from. So here's my second Captain America 2 story. It's going to go through the timeline of CA:TWS (though I'll be changing the plot of it a bit to fit my story!) and probably go beyond that as well. The other Avengers will indeed be making appearances. It'll be quite a different beast from "Heading Home", I imagine, but it'll be fun for me nonetheless! I hope you like it as much as I do, and as always, leave a review! Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, except for my original characters.**

* * *

Bucky Barnes let Victoria Marsden hang around with him and Steve for a few reasons.

For one thing, she _was _a pleasant girl whose company was enjoyable. She didn't mind talking about automobiles or baseball or superheroes (back when they had been children, anyway) and she was different from all the other girls who giggled far too much and discussed things such as hair ribbons. She actually knew how to hit a ball with a bat.

For another thing, she lived in the apartment above Steve's, had done so her whole life. And even though he and Steve had initially rejected her when she had asked to play with them when she had been six and they had been nine, they'd eventually given in because she could be quite fun. As the years had gone by, Bucky had considered severing their friendship a bit—since cavorting about with a girl so much was seen as a bit odd—but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Victoria had no other close friends and leaving her out of things would have felt quite mean. Besides, she was four years younger than them, just a kid. Abandoning her would have been cruel.

Lastly—and this was Bucky's own private reason—Victoria had become a sort of personal project for him. She was a decent-looking girl, rather too slender and petite he sometimes thought, with shoulder-length straight golden-auburn hair, a spray of freckles across her nose, scarlet lips that always looked like she'd been licking a cherry popsicle, and stormy eyes blue-gray eyes. Not quite lovely, but she had a sweet smile. She was also quite lively…but only when she was around Steve or him. Around other young folks, she became quiet and withdrawn. Add that to her looks, which were nice but only when you looked _closely _(which not many people did) and her small size, and she disappeared into the background at any social gatherings he persuaded her to attend (which weren't many). He still couldn't comprehend why she became so shy around other teenagers but he had made it his personal mission to help her come out of her shell. With the right attitude and perhaps some curled hair and a new dress in a bright color, he suspected she could nab any boy she wanted and befriend any girl she wanted. So as it was, he always tried to make her go to parties and social gatherings at the roller rink and other such places, always trying to introduce her to new people and encouraging her to talk to new people. She usually managed to excuse herself and slip away after a few minutes but Bucky was determined to make this work.

So together with him and Steve, Victoria usually made the third figure in the group. They were almost always seen together. And that was how Bucky assumed it would go, that they would stay a trio until he and Steve went to college and got jobs and Victoria married someone (_if _she ever married someone…). Never would he have dreamed that things would change so completely. This was a story that wasn't going to end any time soon

* * *

**Begin.**

"She likes you, you know," said Steve mournfully, staring at the blonde girl sitting at the counter. The girl turned around every few seconds to stare at Bucky and then whirled back around to whisper into the ear of her red-headed friend, who was also sneaking surreptitious glances at Bucky.

"Nonsense," said Bucky, smiling. "She's looking at you, you blond hunk."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Even that girl who was supposed to be _my _date on our double date—what was her name? Marcia… Even _she _was staring at you the whole time. Even though Connie was right there!"

"Girls are shameless," said Bucky. Then he looked at me and said, "Oops. Sorry, Vic."

I glared at him and he laughed. He knew I hated it when anyone called me Vic. Vic, Vicky, Tori…none of those were acceptable in my eyes. It was Victoria, just plain Victoria. "Boys are shameless too," I said, swinging myself around to plunk down next to Steve. "Always sniffing after one girl—and the second she shows any interest, he's gotten bored and moved onto the next! Kind of like _you_, huh, Bucky?"

"I would never do that," said Steve honestly.

"That's because you're a gentleman," I teased. "Unlike Bucky here."

Bucky clapped a hand over his chest, pretending to look offended. "I beg your pardon. I'm a _swell _guy, the chummiest of them all. A true gentleman."

"That's a scream!" I said, smacking the table. "Then explain why you were going with Caroline Johnson three weeks ago—and now you've moved onto Connie Capone!"

"Caroline was…an alright girl," said Bucky, looking a little more serious now. "But Connie's the real deal, Victoria. I think so, anyway."

I tried to rearrange my features into a convincing smile. "That's great, Bucky!" I said, pretending like I was nothing more than pleased for him. In reality…I was dying a little on the inside. I didn't know when it had happened, but my heart had started to pound a little more when I was near Bucky. Which was absolutely crazy, because he was one of my best friends. Why would I feel this way near him? I was itching to ask someone about it but I had no one to ask. I didn't have any girlfriends and asking my mother was impossible. She was dead. Died of dysentery years ago.

Steve and Bucky had moved on while I was ruminating on all of this and were discussing something that made no sense to me. "Fishing!" said Steve, smacking a hand down onto the table. "Let's go fishing."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Steve, the last time you and I went fishing, you nearly drowned us both. We're not going near water. Ever again."

"I can swim," insisted Steve.

"Sure you can."

"Let's go play pool," suggested Steve.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Trying to come up with things to do tonight," said Steve. He looked at Bucky. "Pool? At the Holy Roller?"

"Fine, alright," said Bucky, standing up and straightening his collar. "I could use a few rounds."

I stood up as well and Bucky looked at me in surprise for a minute before laughing (he was always laughing but it had only been recently that his laugh made my stomach feel funny) and saying, "Victoria, you can't come."

"And why not?" I asked indignantly.

"The Holy Roller is no place for girls," he said, shrugging on his brown waistcoat. Steve smiled at me apologetically and Bucky patted my shoulder as he passed. My stomach swooped a little but I ignored it. "Sorry, old girl," he said. "Next time we'll do something else." And then he and Steve walked out the door.

I shrugged on my printed floral sweater and slowly left as well, feeling a bit humiliated and more than a little upset. It was just the constant reminder that no matter how close I was to Bucky and Steve—they were my only two friends—_they _would always be closer to each other. They would always pick one another. They included me most of the time, but occasionally they'd go off like this and leave me behind and it would be like the door had slammed in my face all over again and I would be reminded of the fact that I was essentially a third wheel. In fact, even our friendship was based upon the fact that I'd forced myself upon them. That had been back when I hadn't known about my true self…

I slowly walked home, not noticing that the sky was getting darker and more stormy until the cold, fat raindrops began to fall, slowly at first and then in a gushing torrent. I hugged my thin, soaked sweater to my frame and ran the rest of the way home, my worn brown leather Mary Janes getting stained by the water. It didn't matter anyway; they were too old for me to care. I let myself into our apartment, which was dark and cold as usual. My father didn't really care about keeping it home-y, not since my mother had died…which had been a long time ago.

I locked myself into my tiny bedroom and threw myself onto my bed without bothering to change my clothes. I stared up at the faded posters of Mr. Strong—the superhero I'd admired so much as a little girl until some other girls began to call me a boy for liking him—that were still up there and I sighed. Steve and Bucky would be at the Holy Roller right now, which, they were right, wasn't a suitable place for girls like me. But then why did _they _get to go there? The types of girls that hung around the Holy Roller were the types of girls Dolly Carthouse at school called "red women" when I was fourteen. I wasn't actually sure what that meant and when I'd asked Bucky, he'd coughed and told me to mind my own business.

I'd figured it out by now. "Red women" were prostitutes. The kind of women who wore fishnet tights and red lipstick and dark eye pencil smeared daringly around their lids. The kind of women who smoked cigars and cavorted with men as easy as could be. Not that I wanted to _be _a red woman…but my stomach clenched in jealousy at the thought of one of them smiling at Bucky while he played pool. And he would smile back and he would flirt, because that's what he did with _every _girl…except me.

I muffled my face into a pillow and let out a loud scream. He would never see me as anything but an annoying childhood friend or a little sister type. A year ago, I wouldn't have even wanted him to see me as anything else. Oh, how the times had changed…

I thought about Connie Capone—cute little Connie Capone, with her high girlish voice and excitable nature and dark curls and huge doe eyes—and I got more and more irritated until I sat up, pointed at a mug on my desk and then lifted my hand in the air. The ceramic mug hovered up into the air and then I flung my hand aside wildly in the direction of my wall and the mug shot in the same direction and smashed against the wall. I glared at the pieces, my heart pounding, and then suddenly I felt queasy and ashamed of myself. I'd promised my mother I wouldn't do this anymore. And I'd broken the promise quite a few times since she'd died, but I felt horribly guilty every time.

No one else knew what I could do. No one had known except my mother, when she'd seen me doing it at the park when I was nine. She'd dragged me off the playground with a fearful look in her eyes, shaken me like a rag doll, and commanded me to never do it again, _whatever _it was. She'd looked so frightened that I'd agreed without arguing. However, when I was alone, I would float flowers and try to weave them into flower crowns. My mother caught me again when I was ten and this time she slapped me. I had burst into tears and she'd sighed and knelt by me. Kissed my forehead. Apologized. And had explained that if anyone ever found this out about me, I'd be taken away from her for forever and locked up in the loony bin with all the other people with problems. I'd have scientists cut me open to inspect my insides. She terrified me so much that for a while, I couldn't even use my powers even when I tried in the privacy of my room.

Then she'd died when I was ten and I'd run up to my room after the funeral and screamed and brought my hands together like a giant clap and all the papers and paintings tacked to my walls had come crashing down. My powers had come back. But I tried not to use them. I didn't know what they were or where they came from. I just knew they were wild, uncontrollable, and dangerous. I practiced trying to use them in the privacy of my own room because I was always terrified I would cause a scene in public.

This was the reason I had no friends and refused to go places. I was a freak of nature and I was terrified that one day, someone else would discover my secret—and then my life would be over. I'd be locked up or cut up. Steve and Bucky would look at me with disgust and horror. My father would die from the misery of having his only remaining family turn out to be a monster. I couldn't let any of that happen. So I didn't make any friends except the two I'd already made and I rarely went places.

I knew it annoyed Bucky, that I wasn't social like him. I wished I could tell him why, but I couldn't. I couldn't ever let him know. Steve was kinder about it because Steve was also…well, a loser, like me. I wished more people would give Steve a chance because he really was such a funny and swell guy. People just focused on his looks too much, laughing about how skinny and awkward he was, and ignored his personality. It made me angry because at least I brought my social stupidity upon myself. Steve had it forced upon him for shallow, beastly reasons, and the gall of those smirking, popular kids tore at me. I fell asleep on my bed, still in my soaked dress, and I dreamt of sneering kids who laughed at me and then screamed when I hovered them in the air and sent them flying out of the park…

* * *

The next day passed uneventfully. It was still August, so school wasn't in session yet. I would be going into my last year of high school. Bucky and Steve had already graduated and school was lonely without them. They were both doing courses at a local college, though Steve didn't seem too focused on his marks. Bucky cared more. He wanted to make his mother proud. Steve's mother was dead, like mine, except she had died only two years ago, not seven years ago like mine. I didn't know what Steve or Bucky were up to but I could guess. Bucky would be out with Connie _or _he would be working on some car at the garage. He had a real affinity for fixing up cars. Steve would be trying to sneakily enlist for the war, as he'd been doing so for the past few weeks. I sighed at the thought of the stupid boy and then began to clean the apartment from top to bottom. My mother wasn't here anymore, so as the woman in the house, I had to make sure our home was presentable.

My father worked at the bank so he was gone all day. I knew he'd come home looking tired, with a pinched expression on his face. Times were hard and money wasn't pouring through the economy very well. All the money was being spent on the war. Indulgences were frowned upon, though that didn't stop Dolly Carthouse from buying new dresses and new hair rollers and showing off her shiny blonde curls and clothes. I looked at myself for a moment in the mirror in the tiny foyer—pale face, gray-blue eyes, freckles, and auburn hair—and then I sighed. I was alright looking, nothing too tragic, but I also wasn't anything special. My nose was straight and decent and my lips were always strangely red, as if I'd just eaten a cherry popsicles or candy, but otherwise I was completely forgettable. Not the kind of girl Bucky would ever look at twice.

After I was done cleaning, I cooked an early dinner for my father because I wanted to go out (a beef casserole and boiled potatoes that I mashed and sprinkled a little salt on; it wasn't a very extravagant dinner, but again, times were difficult) and I changed into a dark green dress, smoothed back my hair with a thin black headband, and headed out. I headed down the street to the comic book store a few blocks away. I didn't have any money to spend on any comics, but the owner, Reggie, was a nice guy who let me browse (ahem…_read_) the comics to my heart's content without kicking me out or making me pay. I'd never seen him do the same for any rowdy boy in the store and when I once asked him why he made exceptions for me, he'd smiled his crooked, friendly old-man smile at me and had said, "It's nice to see a young gal interested in comics. Besides, you're quiet and don't make a damn mess like these hooligans who come in here and try to stick gum on the comics." Then he'd scowled and started muttering about "damned hooligans" and I had inched away, ready to throw myself back into a Mr. Super or Lady Liberty comic.

Lady Liberty was my hero. Tall, fit, beautiful, and impossibly confident, she always managed to defeat the enemy—even while being a woman. And the adversaries she faced _always _underestimated her because she was a woman…until she destroyed them. It made me think that women could do so much more. I'd never before considered the fact that women could fight or do those physical things, not until I'd started reading Lady Liberty comics at the age of fifteen.

It was there in the back corner of the store, curled up on the couch that no one but me sat on, that Bucky found me. "I knew I'd find you here, Victoria," he said, smiling that crooked smile at me. "Always reading." He was wearing a strange jacket and a cap perched jauntily on his head.

"You should try it sometime," I joked. "Do you even know how to spell?"

"Of course I do," he said. "Here, let me spell a word for you right now. S-E-R-G-E-A-N-T. What does that spell, Victoria?"

"Sergeant," I said slowly, looking at him, puzzled. "Why would you—" And then it hit me as I noticed the proud gleam in his eyes, suddenly realized what his clothes—no, his _uniform_—meant. "Bucky, are you going to go fight in the war?" I asked slowly.

"Sergeant James Barnes," he said. "Commander of the 107th. I ship out tomorrow."

My heart was pounding and my stomach was swirling so much that I felt like I might be sick all over the floor of the comic book store. Tomorrow. He was going to go fight in the war _tomorrow_. He might not come back. He might get killed. What if he died? Men died in war all the time and their girls back home mourned them. Not that I was his _girl_—but I would still mourn him for forever.

"Congratulations!" I found myself saying and I hugged him. He lifted me into the air for a second and I closed my eyes and pretended for a moment that he actually meant it—and then he was setting me down and saying, "Let's go out on the town tonight. You and me—"

My heart froze.

"—and Connie and Steve. There's a carnival or something in town tonight and I hear Howard Stark will be there too, with some new contraption of his."

"Sure," I said hollowly, smiling widely. "Sounds like a time."

"Should I find some boy to bring along for you?" he teased.

"No!" I said sharply.

He looked surprised for a moment and then he frowned. "I was only joking, Victoria. But you shouldn't be so…"

"So _what_?" I challenged.

He sighed. "Never mind. I don't want to fight before I go. Come on, let's go find Steve and tell him. I wonder where he's gone off to?"

"He's at the pictures, watching the war one again," I answered automatically. That's what Steve had done every Friday night for the past four weeks. Lord knew where he scraped up enough money to do the _same _thing every week—but where there was Steve's will, there was a way. He was obsessed with the idea of fighting with honor for our glorious country. There was something very honorable about Steve, in my opinion, but I didn't see what honor there was in killing. Fighting. Ruining families. It all seemed like one big stupid fight that men had invented for no reason…but I would never say that to Bucky or Steve. They'd would just laugh at me and tell me "I didn't understand." I hated when they said that…which they did quite often. For some reason, Bucky and Steve thought I was some sort of naïve child.

Which sometimes I was. But not all the time. And it was mostly due to staying away from social interactions as much as possible.

We went to find Steve…and find Steve we did. We heard sounds of fighting coming from the alleyway next to the theater and went to investigate—to find Steve being beat up by a guy twice his size.

"Stay back, Victoria," warned Bucky, pushing me gently towards the wall and then he strode forward to deal with the bully. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to see the violence. This happened about once a month, in my estimate. Steve was forever shooting off his mouth to some dumb jock or bully and getting his face beat in, and Bucky was always stepping in to save him.

"Hey!" Bucky said loudly. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

I couldn't help it—I opened my eyes. Bucky yanked the larger boy off of Steve, who was on the ground using a trash can lid as a shield (so typical of Steve; he was nothing if not ingenious). The boy swung around and came at Bucky, but even though he was larger than Bucky, Bucky neatly side-stepped him and then punched him in the face so hard the boy went sprawling.

"Get out of here," warned Bucky. "Or it's going to be worse next time."

Just like most bullies, this boy suddenly wasn't willing to pick on someone who was willing—and equally able—to fight back. The boy got to his feet, his pants dusty, and bumped against me roughly before he stormed around the corner.

"Hey!" Bucky called angrily but the boy was already gone.

"I'm fine," I said. "He didn't do anything."

"No way to treat a woman," said Bucky, frowning.

"Bucky, he was just beating up a guy half his size," I pointed out. "I don't think he's much of a gentleman."

Bucky turned and hauled Steve to his feet. Steve had a stupid grin on his face, despite the bruise that was already starting to form on his cheek. Bucky whistled when he saw it. "Got yourself a nice shiner right there, Rogers. That'll make the ladies swoon. What do you think, Victoria? Will it make the ladies swoon?"

"I feel weak at the knees already," I said and they both laughed.

"Sometimes I feel like you like getting beat up," said Bucky, crossing his arms and surveying Steve with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. He looked at him the way an older brother would look at his younger brother and I took a step back, suddenly feeling a little out of place. It was one of those moments where I was never sure if I was wanted.

"I had him on the ropes," argued Steve. "One more second and I'd have knocked him flat."

"Sure, sure," agreed Bucky, his tone still laced with amusement. "Well, I've got some news for you, Rogers. Take a look at me. Whaddaya see?"

Steve looked at Bucky as if seeing him for the first time—and then I could see realization hit as his face fell. "You've been drafted," he said hollowly and he sounded as falsely happy as I had, except I knew Steve was upset for a different reason. Steve desperately wanted to go fight in the war and defend his country…except he was too small and runty and weak.

"Sergeant of the 107th," said Bucky and he sounded proud.

"That's—that's great, Buck," said Steve and he hugged Bucky, clapping him on the back.

Bucky hooked a thumb back at me. "I was just telling Vic here—"

"I'm going to strangle you," I said.

"—I was just telling _Victoria _here…we should go out to celebrate. I've invited Connie out to that carnival or exposition thing tonight. You and Victoria are coming too. You can be each others' dates."

I linked arms with Steve and jokingly said, "What do you say, sir?"

"Anything for you, ma'am," said Steve back. "You look swell tonight."

"Why, thank you, sir!" I looked at Bucky. "See? Perfect gentleman."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Comedians, the two of you. The new Punch and Judy show. You'll draw in massive crowds."

"I knew I was born to be a star," I said, curtseying.

We headed off to the carnival or whatever it was. Evening was falling and the sky was turning twilight but it was still warm out and the crowds grew thicker as we neared the exposition (as I realized it was). When we got close enough, we heard someone shout, "Bucky!" and turned to see Connie Capone jumping up and down and waving a few yards away. She had a blonde girl with her.

Bucky elbowed Steve, who dodged him. "Look, sport. She's brought a gal for you."

So it was Bucky with Connie and Steve with…whatever her name was. She didn't spare a second glance at Steve and he looked uncomfortable around her, like he had no idea what to do with her ignoring him. But still, at least they were standing side by side. I hovered off to the side, a plastic smile plastered to my face, somehow the odd man out…_again_.

"Oh, look," said someone in a sneering tone and we all turned to see Dolly Carthouse and her group of pretty girlfriends passing by me. "It's Her Royal Oddness, Queen Victoria. What's wrong, Vicky, couldn't find a date?"

My face burned and I shrank away from, shrank away from confrontation, and Bucky loudly called, "Don't you have something important to do, _Delia_? Like go shopping for a soul?"

Dolly blushed furiously out of anger and embarrassment. Bucky, despite not really hanging around many people other than Steve and me, was still one of those guys that was all around friends with every person—whether popular or unpopular—and was very well liked. His looks probably had something to do with this but he was also extremely confident and nothing seemed to faze him or take the small, amused, casual smile off his face. So getting told off by him in public was pretty humiliating. Dolly flounced away and I shot Bucky a grateful look. To my surprise, he was frowning at me. He grabbed my arm and led me aside a few feet and said, "You need to start standing up to them, Victoria."

"I—" My face burned at being reprimanded and I didn't know what to say.

"No, you don't understand," he said. "I won't be here tomorrow. I'm counting on you, Victoria. You need to stand up to these girls—and guys, too, for Steve's sake. Kid can't shut his mouth but people will be less likely to pick a fight with him if there's a girl with him. It looks bad, see." Then he let go of my arm and walked away.

My night was ruined after that. I kept alternating between worrying that Bucky thought I was a coward, fearing the fact that he was right and I would now have to stand up for Steve and myself, and swallowing down my jealousy when I looked at beautiful Connie with Bucky. The night passed in a blur and had I paid more attention, I would have noticed that Steve seemed glum as well. We ended the exposition by watching Howard Stark fail miserably at displaying his hovering car and then Connie said, "Sarge, let's go dancing!"

Bucky shrugged. "Sure thing. Let's do it. You coming, Steve, Victoria?"

"No thanks," we both said at the same time. We exchanged a surprised glance—clearly Steve had no idea why I was depressed—and Bucky told Connie and the blonde girl to wait for him by the entrance. They left and then he approached both of us. "Why not?" he asked.

"I feel ill," I announced. "I'm going home."

"Hold on," said Bucky. "It's dark. Let me walk you home."

"I can walk home," I said coldly. "I'm not an idiot. Besides, you're busy." I turned away from him and stormed towards the exit. As I was walking, my mind was screaming at me, _Don't end it like this! This might be the last time you see him! _But my pride and humiliation wouldn't stop me from walking away. I pushed past the crowds, feeling tears burn my eyes, and then I ran the rest of the way home. I was a fast runner; Bucky had no chance of catching up to me.

_You're an idiot_, I lectured to myself as I locked myself in my room and kicked off my shoes. I promised myself I would go meet Bucky early tomorrow morning and say goodbye to him and apologize for my atrocious behavior. How could I ever expect him to see me as more than a sister if I acted so childishly? This was all my fault. But I could fix it.

* * *

Only I never got the chance to fix it. I overslept the next morning. When I woke up, the light streaming in through the window was too low in the sky. I looked at the clock hanging on my wall and shrieked. It was almost ten o'clock. I washed up, ripped a brush through my hair, yanked on a dress and my shoes, and flew out the front door of my apartment—only to smash right into Steve, who had held his hand up to knock on my door. We both fell backwards, clutching our foreheads, groaning in pain.

I slowly got to my feet and hauled him up. "Steve—what is it?" I asked. "I was going to go meet Bucky—"

"He's already gone," said Steve and my heart sank.

"Why didn't you come get me?" I demanded. "I wanted to say goodbye!"

"I didn't even know," said Steve. "They shipped out early this morning. I barely managed to wake up on time to go say goodbye. But don't worry, I told Bucky that you were really sick and throwing up all night and that's why you were so cranky last night. I also told him you said goodbye."

It wasn't as good as apologizing and saying goodbye in person, but it was better than nothing. I gave Steve a grateful look and said, "Thanks," noticing that he didn't inquire as to why I had _actually _been so cranky last night. Steve was that way; he liked knowing the truth, but he didn't push people.

"So…why were you coming here?" I asked.

Steve's face lit up suddenly. "Because I'm going too!"

I stared at him incredulously. "I beg your pardon? You've been drafted?"

"Yes!" he said happily.

"But…" I didn't want to be cruel, but _how_? How on earth had he been drafted, considering he'd been rejected around fifty times already?

Seeing my hesitant expression, Steve leaned in close and said, "Don't tell anyone this. But I've signed up to be a part of a secret project. They're going to do some testing on me. They said it'll make me a good soldier."

I stared at Steve in alarm. This sounded suspiciously like the plots the villains in comics were always cooking up. Not that that life was a superhero story—but still, this sounded very suspect. "Steve, are you _sure _this is…this is a legitimate opportunity?" I asked urgently. "What if…"

"Victoria, it's fine," he said. "I'm getting it done today. In fact, you can come with me. You can't come inside, of course, but you can wait outside the building. Do you want to come?"

"Of course," I said quickly. This whole situation seemed worrying to me and I didn't want to let Steve get into trouble. If I let harm come to Steve within hours of Bucky's leaving, Bucky would never forgive me.

_You'll see him again soon. Stop worrying. He'll be back before you know it, a war hero, smiling his usual smile and maybe he'll smile at you slightly differently. Maybe you'll be more grown up by then. More sophisticated._

"Hello? Victoria?" Steve waved a hand in front of my face and I snapped out of my daydreams where Bucky was presenting me with a bouquet of flowers and taking me dancing.

"Oh! Yes, let's go." I grabbed my purse and smoothed down my hair and then we exited my apartment, hurrying a few blocks away to a more industrial, poorer part of town. I looked around nervously as we walked, holding more tightly to my bag. I was by no means a wealthy girl, but I was more well off than the people living in this area—and we all knew it. I could sense the hard stares from the people around me, the judgmental looks that crawled over my clean hair and skin and washed dress and I pressed closer to Steve (though it wasn't as if he could protect me either).

We reached the building where he was to get his "testing" done and he slipped inside, smiling and saying goodbye. I promised to wait right outside and then I sat down on the ground outside the building and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. The hours passed by, the sun moved in the sky, the day got hotter, and I found myself sweating and my stomach rumbling. I hadn't even had breakfast and I craved an ice cream dearly…but there was no ice cream to be found here. Besides, I didn't have any nickels to spare for ice cream.

I even dozed off slightly, though I was still awake, but I was jolted upright by the sounds of—gunshots? And screaming and chaos coming from inside the building. I leaped to my feet in alarm just as a man with dark hair burst out of the building, brandishing a gun. I screamed and leaped back against the wall, clutching my coin purse to my chest, but he ignored me and took off running down the street. I stared after him—and screamed again as _another _man, this time tall, blond, and muscular burst out of the building.

_Hang on—didn't he have STEVE'S FACE?_

My jaw fell as I saw Steve's face on the man's body. He gave me a split-second glance and it was definitely _Steve's _blue eyes I was staring with astonishment into—and then he took off sprinting after the other man. And my word, he ran more quickly and agilely than any man I'd ever seen before. I sagged against the wall for a moment, feeling absolutely _weak _with shock. Had this been the "testing" Steve had talked about? Turning into someone…someone who resembled Mr. Super from the comics? How on earth had they done this?

A woman with dark curls and heels sprinted out of the building, shooting a gun down the street, chasing after both the man and Steve. I stared after her for a second and then I took off running too, following all three of them. I was actually quite a fast runner and it wasn't hard to follow them. I just followed the trail of destruction they were leaving—the sounds of gunshots, people screaming, cars crashed in the street, and street windows shattered with glass.

I got stuck at a crowd of people, however, and it took twenty minutes just to shove through them. When I got through, I had nowhere to go so I began to make a round around the waterfront edge of the street. Eventually I found Steve and the woman standing there. The dark haired man was gone. I hesitated upon approaching them, not sure who Steve was at this point—he looked so different—but he looked up and shouted, "Victoria!" and waved me forward.

I approached slowly, taking him in with awe. My eyes could have easily fallen out of my head. He was tall, much taller than me now—and I was five feet, six inches, so I wasn't very short for a girl—and very muscular and well-built. He had always had a sweet face but it had never seemed to fit on his scrawny body. Now it did; he looked positively handsome. The woman noticed my gawping and smiled a close-lipped, red-lipsticked smile. "Nice handiwork, isn't it?"

"Did—did _you _do this?" I gasped.

"The people I work for," she explained. She looked at Steve. "Your little sister?"

"One of my best friends, actually," said Steve. "Victoria Marsden. Victoria, meet Agent Peggy Carter. She works for the military too. She'll be with me when I leave."

"And when will that be?" I asked faintly.

"Tomorrow," said Steve apologetically. "I won't actually be fighting."

"You won't?" I asked, confused. "Then what will you be doing?"

"Wearing a superhero suit," he said, smiling in an a self-conscious way. "I'm going to be a new superhero called Captain America. Go around the country, raise some morale and money, and then head overseas to our boys, to raise their morale."

Captain America. Well, the name certainly fit for Steve; he'd always wanted to fight for our country. And it sounded like he would be out of danger, which made me happy. I nodded, feeling bewildered, and said, "Right. Right. That sounds…right. Fantastic. Right."

"I think she's in a bit of a shock," said Agent Carter in a low voice.

"How can I not be?" My voice cracked and I gestured to Steve. "Look at you! You're—you look so different!" I felt awkward and self-conscious, not comfortable. I was used to Steve's physical presence being not so…threatening. This Steve made me feel positively tiny, like he could smush me with one hand.

Steve saw my panic and grabbed my hands and gently said, "Victoria, it's me. I'm the same Steve I've always been. I'm just…bigger." He laughed and I looked into his eyes and I saw that he was telling the truth. He was still the same Steve Rogers who I knew and loved—he was just able to destroy bullies now. I couldn't help but smile at the thought and Agent Carter smiled slightly at _my _smile and then Steve smiled self-consciously at _her _smile and we stood there like idiots for a moment, all smiling small smiles.

But I couldn't smile when I got home, no matter how hard I tried. I ate dinner alone as my father snored on the couch, the radio softly on and reporting war news and late night stories. I washed my plates, turned the radio off, threw a blanket over my father, and went to my room. I changed into my nightgown and tried to go to sleep but my sleep was restless, haunted with dreams of people who kept disappearing. First my mother, then my father, then Bucky, and now Steve… I had no one left to lose at this point.

I was alone.

* * *

The days passed in an endless blur. They seemed to all blend and fade together when I had no one to talk to but they also passed achingly slow, as if I could feel every minute I was alone. I spent a fair few days crying in my room and I also destroyed several more objects. Being alone more often, I spent more time breaking my promise to my mother and trying to practice with my powers. It all seemed to be a matter of focusing with my mind on what I wanted and then attuning my hand movements to my thoughts. I floated up a piece of paper and then pulled both of my hands apart. The paper tore in two pieces slowly and then the pieces floated to the ground. I smiled triumphantly, but I was still afraid inside of what I was capable of. Of what people would do to me if they found me.

I listened to the news of the war every evening, sitting by the fireplace and the radio. Months went on and I strained myself to hear any news of Captain America and the 107th—but nothing in particular came. I collected every newspaper and magazine clipping I could find about Captain America traveling around the country and to Europe, trying to raise the morale of the people. I would stare down at the photos of Steve's face, trying to memorize his face and missing and Bucky so much it hurt. It was true what they said, you didn't know a good thing until it was gone. And Bucky and Steve were definitely gone. The girls and boys at school even stopped teasing me; it was like they could sense my sadness and it made them want to stay away from me. The months got colder, winter was approaching faster than ever, and every night I would listen to the radio, terrified that I would hear some disastrous news about either of them. And every night, when the news updates—which were more like morale-boosting cheery stories anyway, not even real news, I suspected—were over, I would put my head down onto my knees and wonder when my boys were coming home.

* * *

I got the news about Steve first—though later I found out that they'd both died in relatively the same time frame. The news made its way across the Atlantic Ocean and then it was being screamed from every radio station, every newspaper, and every magazine across the nation. Captain America was dead. He had died a true American hero, having heroically given his life to save his fellow men, women, and country. Knowing Steve, I didn't doubt this was true. It didn't make the blinding pain any less. And it didn't stop the tears from flowing down my face every night when I studied my stupid newspaper clippings of my now dead best friend.

Captain America had been famous and popular. His death had made news. Bucky, as important as he was to me, had just been another man. His parents received the letter letting them know Bucky had died in action a few weeks later. They'd let me know, his mother tearful and his father gruffly proud that his son had died a hero's death. I'd put on a brave face for them and escaped back to my own apartment as soon as I could. Where I proceeded to vomit. Thank God I at least made it to the lavatory in time.

Bucky wasn't coming back. He wasn't going to come sauntering off a train and smile his jaunty smile and regale us with war stories. At this point, I wouldn't have even minded if he ran off the train straight into Connie Capone's arms and drove off to the church right then and there to get married to her. As long as he could be _alive_. I saw Connie walking around with red eyes for a few weeks after she'd learned of Bucky's death and a part of me wanted to go up to her and console her—let her know I knew how she felt—but I was too afraid to approach her, so I stayed away.

Steve wasn't coming back either. My stupid, honorable friend had gotten his wish. He'd fought in a war, made a name for himself, given his life for his country. But at the end of the day, Steve Rogers didn't exist anymore and this made my hurt ache. I had lost both of them. My boys were gone and they were never coming back. I was going to be alone for forever. Some days I thought I was moving on—but then I'd ponder my horrible, lonely future and remember that they were gone and every moment we'd had, every laugh, every baseball game…all of those memories only existed for me now. My life was built around ghosts. And I would burst into loud, shaking tears all over again. I didn't know how to stop.

* * *

Time passed and I became more withdrawn and erratic. Even my father—my clueless father who had largely ignored me ever since my mother died—noticed and tried a few times to awkwardly talk to me. But he had shut me out when my mother died. He didn't deserve my attention now. So I shut him out and shut myself in my room. My powers went unchecked and I smashed and destroyed several things in my room. I even made things come into being, raising up a pile of broken glass shards and twisting my fists slowly in a crushing motion. The pieces came together and mashed into a strange shape. But the second I let my hand drop, the shards fell and scattered everywhere. I didn't bother to pick them up.

Bucky's parents tried inviting me over for dinner a few times. I went once but it was the most horrible experience of my life. We sat around the table silently, every now and then making a stiff and awkward comment. Eventually I excused myself on the ground that I felt ill and fled, my plate untouched. I knew it was atrocious manners and I knew they were hurting badly—they had lost their only child, their golden son, and they'd lost their son's best friend, who they had loved almost as much as they had loved Bucky. And they had lost _me_, in a way, since I never saw them again after I got the news. I'd grown up in their house more than I'd grown up in my own apartment but I felt like I didn't even know his parents after he died.

People talked about it, of course. But over time they moved on. Plenty of other young men were dying and there were more important things to worry about. They found another man to don a Captain America suit to try and boost morale in the States—since the loss of our heroic icon had cast a dark gloom across the nation—but he wasn't even anything close to Steve, and no one cared one lick for him.

The months passed and I graduated high school with my grades higher than they had ever been before. I had nothing _but _time to do my homework. As much as I loathed going to school where people avoided me like I was the plague—the girl with two dead best friends—it was still something to occupy my mind and my time. When high school was over, then came summer and that was when I was most lost. Bucky and Steve had been gone for over half a year now and I still didn't know how to function. I was numb. I didn't talk to anyone and I didn't even go to the comic book store anymore. Even Connie Capone was smiling slightly more these days, though she still looked sad when she thought no one was noticing, but I had known Bucky and Steve for most of my childhood. It would take more than just half a year to move on from this. In fact, I didn't think I'd _ever _move on from this.

It was during one of these listless summer afternoons that it happened. I was absentmindedly washing dishes at the sink and staring out the window above the sink. It was one those warm, stormy-yet-sunny summer afternoons. The sun was golden and hidden behind gray stormy clouds and the sky was slate gray but the air was warm and damp from the rain that had just passed and I could hear the sounds of children playing in the street outside somewhere. I, meanwhile, had the lovely view of the tiny little courtyard behind our apartment building that no one spent any time in anymore. Bucky, Steve, and I had played here as children but no other children played here.

Tears burned my eyes and I hunched over the sink, hating myself for being so weak. Why couldn't I move on from this? Was this normal, to feel this sad? And added to my sadness was guilt. I didn't think I'd even cried this much when my mother died. What kind of horrible girl was I, to cry more over my best friends than my own mother? But still, I'd only known my mother for ten years and I'd known Steve and Bucky for longer than that…

Hot tears poured down my cheeks and I angrily threw my hands in the air, raising all the soapy, wet dishes in the sink—they wobbled and shivered precariously in the air and my arms began to burn and ache from the effort of trying to hold up so many different objects at once—and then I let out a scream of rage and wildly flung my arms outwards. The dishes flew in all directions, smashing into cabinets, walls, the ceiling, the floor… All around me rained down glass and porcelain and I didn't even feel guilty. I furiously wiped away my tears, my chest heaving up and down with rage and guilt and depression and sadness. I was a monster. I was a horrible person. I was out of control. I was—

"Impressive."

Letting out a shriek, I whirled around, my heart nearly jumping out of my throat. I clapped a hand to my thundering heart and staggered back a step, stepping on some shards of glass. "BLAST!" I cursed, hopping away and holding my heel. I stared in horror at the strange man who was standing in my kitchen. He was very small and portly, not very attractive, and he wore a tan suit that seemed far too big and baggy on him. How in the blazes had he gotten in here? Was he a kidnapper or—or one of those awful men who did _things _to young women? And he'd _seen _what I'd just done!

"Who are you?" I cried. "Get out of my apartment!"

"Calm down, my dear," he said, chuckling. "I mean you no harm."

"How did you get in here?" I demanded, trying not to let my fear show—even though I was almost positive I was physically stronger than him and could fight him off if I had to. He was extremely short. "Get the hell out!" I looked around wildly and grabbed a sharp shard of dinner plate off the counter. "I'll—I'll—"

"Do what?" he asked dryly. "Stab me to death? Please hear me out, Miss Marsden. My name is Arnim Zola. I work for a…corporation that is involved in intelligence. We've caught wind of your…_talents_"—he gestured to the shattered plates everywhere—"and we wish to recruit you."

I stared at him in horror, not understanding at all what he was saying. "Intelligence? _Arnim_? That's—that's not an English name…" The word "intelligence" rang a bell and I recalled a Lady Liberty comic where she had fought an entire team of spies. "You're a spy!" I shouted. "Intelligence, that's the _nice _way of saying 'spy', isn't it?"

Arnim Zola blinked.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" I yelled. I picked up a half-cracked plate and flung it wildly at his head, panicking. He ducked, looking alarmed, and then he straightened up and sighed. "I'd hoped it would go much easier than this," he said. "I'd hoped you would go willingly. It would have made things much more easy. Unfortunately, we need your talents—so we can't just let you go. You understand, right?"

I suddenly felt very afraid. What did he mean "willingly"? Who couldn't just let me go? Where did they want me to go? Before I could say anything or run away, Arnim Zola produced a small black device—a gun—and pointed it at me. I opened my mouth—to perhaps scream—and he pulled the trigger. I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting excruciating pain and then death…except all I felt was a small pinch in my neck. I looked down to see a small dart sticking out of my neck.

"What?" I said, but my voice sounded blurry to my own ears. I swayed on my feet, the room suddenly swirling around me, and the last thing I saw before I fell were the dark shapes of three men entering the room behind Arnim Zola. I staggered forward and one of them caught me and then my eyes closed and I was drifting in a sea of unconsciousness, trying to stay afloat. My last real thought that I could remember later was _My father will be all alone…_ And then I slipped under the icy black waves and I was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: In case you need a way to visualize how Victoria's powers work, sort of try picturing the powers of Nick and Victor from the movie **_**Push **_**(which also, coincidentally, stars Chris Evans!). Also, updates for just the first couple of chapters might be quick because I already had the first couple of chapters written and saved on my computer.**

* * *

The scientist fell in love with the girl.

She'd been there for as long as he'd worked there. He hadn't noticed her at first, but once he had, he couldn't stop noticing her. She stood upright, her arms crossed over her chest, eyes closed. Ice crystals dusted her eyelashes and the tip of her nose and her lips and her hair, which was a gorgeous auburn-golden color that the scientist just _knew _would glow like a golden flame if it caught the sunlight at a particular angle. Her eyes were always closed but he liked to imagine they were emerald green. A dusting of freckles covered her face like cinnamon and he wanted to weep because of it. Her lips were scarlet and he thought she was the most lovely girl he'd ever seen. Even though she was frozen.

He didn't have clearance to have anything to do with her, so the best he could do was contend himself by looking at her and dreaming about what she was like when she was awake. He knew she was woken up a few times a year for…some sort of testing or something. He had once tried to sneak away to see her, but he hadn't gotten very far before guards had demanded to know why he wanted to get into the area with maximum security clearance and he had had no answer. They had thrown him out into the corridor and he had hobbled away, his heart and his dignity fractured.

He had to see her _somehow_. Not even for him to own or anything like that. He just wanted to see her awake and out and about. He began to think about what a shame it was that she was locked up this way. So he began to devise a plan. Among all his drawings of her and poems dedicated to her that papered his walls at home, he printed out lots of information about cryo sleep and how to unplug someone from it. Once he was sure that he knew how to do it properly and quickly, he devised his plans. She was only taken out of it a few times a year and the rest of time she stood in the basement, frozen, and no one took any notice of her. No one would notice them.

He unplugged her and helped her, stumbling and coughing and dripping blood and icy water all over the floor, dress in some agent's clothing and dry herself off. Once she had been aware of what he was doing, she had whispered a silent thanks to him and his heart had sung with joy. He helped her walk right out of the facility and then she had taken off running into the wilderness, stumbling slightly, and he had watched her go, feeling unbelievable happiness and sadness all at once. He would never see her again…but at least he had set her free. He was content.

Until they figured out it was him who had let one of their prizes go. Then they had lowered him headfirst into a vat of hydrochloric acid. His last thought had been of her and the fact that her eyes hadn't been emerald green, but a stormy blue-gray color. So beautiful.

* * *

**Keep Going.**

"ON YOUR LEFT!"

I turn to see a fist flying at me. I quickly duck back, swinging low, and then I lunge forward and tackle them around their waist. We both go crashing to the ground and I straddle them, pinning their arms against their sides with my knees. I can hear cheers and yells and chants all around me but I'm focused on the face in front of me. My vision is blurry with sweat but still I lift my fist and slam it into their face. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four Times. Five times. Six times. Seven times.

"I—I give up," the girl chokes out through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.

I punch her in the face one last time for good measure and then I stand up and punch my fist in the air in victory. The crowd around me explodes into cheers and yells, a few disgruntled-looking people handing over cash to people with triumphant expressions on their faces.

"See?" One boy says, unable to contain the glee in his voice. "Told you you should never bet against Fizzy!"

Glad to be of help, boys.

"She got her ass kicked enough times back in the beginning," one boy mutters. He's referring to my early years here, when I was the one people picked on.

I turn to give him a dangerous look, raising an eyebrow. "Keyword: _back_." I say. "Would you like to be next?"

He scowls but stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns away sullenly. No answer. Of course. Who would challenge me after this?

The girl on the ground is groaning and struggling to get up and I walk over to her and look down at her. She's larger than me but that didn't stop me from destroying her. Her face is a bloody, bruised mess and she's clearly hurting. The crowd around me has gone silent and everyone is watching me. Waiting to see what I do next. If I help her up, I am a benevolent leader, one people aren't afraid to approach. One that has earned the trust of her people. One that is merciful and just.

I pull back my leg and kick her as hard as I can in the ribs. She lets out a strangled scream but her scream is deafened by the cheers of the crowd around me. These are a rough bunch and if you aren't rougher, then you won't survive long. How do you think I've done it for so long?

I walk away from her then, pushing aside simpering well-wishers, wishing I could be left alone. I've marked my territory, shown my strength and bared my teeth. Now I can put away my ruler and live to see another day in peace.

At least until the next person decides to challenge me. This is how this world works. You're only on top until you're not. And when someone challenges you, you either destroy them—or you limp home and cry to your mama.

I don't have a mother.

I hear footsteps following me and I try my hardest to keep from rolling my eyes. _Be nice, Fizzy_. He's helpful and useful (sort of). It's always good to have some sort of backup, though God only knows why he's decided to attach himself to me. I don't even know his name. Shadow? Shane? Something silly like that.

"Nice fight," he pants, joining me. "Why you gotta run away so fast? Enjoy the glory."

That's right, Fizz. Enjoy the glory. Take a seat on your throne and smile down at your subjects. Until one of them sneaks up behind you and beheads you. I've had enough of people sneaking up behind me to last three lifetimes—which, coincidentally, is how long I feel I've lived.

"No thanks," I say, taking the water bottle he's handed me and taking a swig. "I didn't enjoy that."

"Liar," he says, hurrying to keep pace with my strides. "You like showing off for the crowd."

He's right. I, Fizzy, am a filthy liar. I don't like being thought of as a ruler…but I like showing off what I can do. I like being in control. I like being powerful. I like being feared. It makes my anger easier to control. And if there's something I always am…it's angry.

Angry and a little frightened.

Oh, and also usually hungry.

"Where are you going now?" he asks.

Enough of this. I stop and turn to stare at him, arms folded. He takes a step back. "Listen, Sh—" I pause, trying to come up with a name… What on earth could it be? Shaq? Shurman? Is that even a name? Somehow I don't think so.

"Shawn," he says, sounding a bit hurt. Oops.

"Right. Shawn," I say, trying to smile convincingly. "I thought I've told you that if you ever try to figure out where I live again, I'll rip out your entrails and hang you with them."

Shawn (I really _must _try to remember his name) looks a bit scared and I don't blame him. He didn't used to believe I could do things like that. No one did. Until I _did _do things like that. (Not exactly like that. Believe it or not, I'm not actually a psychopath. Though I seem like one. But it's all about how you craft your _image_.) And now they—and Shawn—should know better.

"Yes, Fizzy," he mutters and hurries down the street, no doubt to spread more tales about me that only make me more of a legend on the streets.

This wasn't how I meant for it to happen. I never meant to make a name for myself. For the first two years, I hid like a squalid gutter rat. I starved, didn't speak to anyone, and stayed in the shadows. I felt like I was losing my mind and the world didn't make sense to me. It was too fast. Too bright. Too modern. But it was what it was and I had no other choice.

Until the day when some older kids decided to steal the food I had taken ages lifting from dumpsters. They beat me up and left me bleeding in the alley, making off with my food. And that was when I had stopped feeling scared and had started feeling angry.

And when I get angry, dangerous things happened.

I tracked down those kids over the next few days and I smashed their heads against the walls using…

My abilities.

(Don't worry, they didn't die. I just knocked them out a bit. They never even remembered what I'd done—all they could remember was that they were terrified of me for some reason. And that was the start of my reputation as someone who was not a good idea to mess with.)

I frown against the suddenly cold wind that comes from nowhere and stick my hands farther in my pockets. I'm not wearing a coat. Honestly, I shouldn't have to. It's June in Washington D.C. It should not be this chilly.

I check to see that no one is following me and then I slip into an alleyway and scarper quickly up the fire escape. I have a nice set up on the roof of the building. I've filched a tent from some sporting goods store and I have pillows and blankets inside and really, what else does a girl need?

Well, besides some soap and deodorant and food and a home and some security and safety.

But hey, beggars can't be choosers, right?

_And _are _you a beggar, Fizzy?_

Yes. Yes, I am.

I eat a nutritious dinner that comprises of a bag of marshmallows (_Easter Bunny shaped! _exclaims the bag) and then I lay back in my tent and ponder for possibly the five thousandth time how entirely stupid my life is.

No, really, it's true. I'm respected on the streets—but that's only because I've learned to fight and give no f…

Ducks. Give no ducks.

But being respected by street kids won't get me very far in the long run.

_And where do you want to go in the long run, kid? _

I sigh and close my eyes. Smell the smoky summer air. Feel the slightly cold breeze (global warming is one of the truly dreadful things about this century. Shame on you all for all your inconsideration towards Mother Earth. Although I'm not sure if this really counts).

I'll need a shower soon. That's always hard. I usually break into someone's apartment when I know they've gone somewhere, but that, of course, has its risks. Risks such as them returning and catching me naked in their shower. Not that that's ever happened. But still—it could. It's good to be prudent in this world. Even when you're abusing peoples' showers without their permission or knowledge.

I wonder what they think when they realize the bathtub is wet when it shouldn't be. I smile when I think about the psychological torture I probably cause.

There's not much to do to pass the time. The first two years I was out passed quickly, simply because I was so bewildered and focused purely on hiding and surviving. As the time passed and I became more confident, I found more free time…to do absolutely nothing. I'm the lamest badass (such a lovely yet crude word, no? It's one of my favorites from this era; I think I'm really adapting to the slang of the time now) ever because I don't actually have anything close to a personality of any sort. I'm a chameleon. I'll be who I need to be to live.

And surviving takes a lot of work. You need to threaten people, beat up people, steal things… Basically you have to break all sorts of laws and rules. Especially when you're a smaller-sized female on the streets. Men think they can take advantage of me. By the time I'm through with them, they don't think that anymore. In fact, they may never try to touch another woman again. Good. But that's rare—most people are scared away by my weapons before they even get a chance to mess with me. I carry around a steel pipe and a lot of daggers and knives that are all stained in rusty blood. Mind you, some of the blood _does _belong to people I've beat up—but a lot of it also belongs to me. I cut my hand open one night while trying to open a can of Chef Boyardee to eat cold (delicious, I know; _whatever _did America do without the advent of disgusting canned goods?) and I got the ingenious idea to drip my blood all over my weapons and let it dry there. That sends a certain message, don't you think? Adds a certain flavor to your style. Also, something about silvery metal weapons covered in blood just looks so much more dangerous than simply waving a gun about like a lunatic. I've found that most people who carry guns to look dangerous don't actually even know how to aim properly. I've offered to show some of them a thing or two. Usually by shooting them in the foot or leg.

I suppose I should take a moment to explain, since I've just made myself sound like a regulation psychopath and you are probably backing away in horror. I do what I do out of necessity. It's not like I wake up thinking, _Hmmm, whose heart shall I strike fear into today?_

Okay, perhaps one-eighth of me thinks that.

But I do what I do to maintain my reputation. And I maintain my reputation to stay alive. And I stay alive to—

Well. _That _one is To Be Determined.

But I'm still me underneath. Perhaps farther deep down than I would like, but I'm still me. I've gotten used to this fast-paced, information-obsessed, technology-crazed world, though I avoid looking at the news as much as possible (another century, another war; what difference does _any _of it make? Innocent people die on both sides and that's enough to put me off my stomach). But I still feel out of place and out of time. I still feel odd wearing pants sometimes and I feel odd when I realize men and women can do things they weren't able to do before—like women getting jobs as bank owners and men staying home to take care of the children. It's not a _bad _thing. Just slightly unsettling. And fine, perhaps the vulgar ways some women act these days bothers me on the inside. What happened to being a lady?

Not that, you know, being a street thug is very ladylike. But like I've said: necessity.

Men are worse now too. They're rude and shockingly disrespectful to women. If I were 160 pounds heavier and a foot taller, I'd go around knocking them all to the ground. As it is, I sometimes creep up to them and shove them into manholes. Hey, the name was made for a reason, right?

Ah, but this is getting all too philosophical and deep for me now. It's not good to dwell on anything, in my mind. You'll only end up rather sad and disappointed and possibly eating cold ravioli out of a can on a rooftop alone. You _may _even end spirited away to a different time era! But that's not guaranteed.

A funny prickle runs down my spine—the feeling of being watched. I slowly look around the rooftop warily, even getting up to walk around the edge and look down. No one is around. I look around at the buildings around me. No one in sight. I pause for a moment, still feeling uneasy…but nothing jumps out at me wildly shrieking like a banshee (just imagine!) so I shrug and crawl into my tent and go to sleep, sleeping with one hand under my pillow, hand gripping my steel pipe.

One can never be too prepared.

* * *

Interestingly enough, my preparation comes in handy the very next morning. I'm awoken by the sounds of footsteps and I'm up in a flash, darting out of my tent and blinking into the bright morning sun, holding up my steel pipe. I admit, with my squinty eyes and messy bed hair and thick flannel sleeping shirt (extra-large in a red and navy blue plaid print for _just _that right amount of lumberjack chic flair!) I probably don't look intimidating at all.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and then I can see that I'm looking at a woman standing in front of me. Her arms are crossed and she's wearing all black. Shoulder-length hair that's _much _more ginger than mine—mine is more of a honey-auburn color. A pretty face, actually, but with a very scary and serious expression on it. Alarming.

Moments like these—odd. What is one supposed to say? "Hello"? "Who are you"? "Get out"? All of them sound so cliché, don't they? So I wait silently for _her _to speak. The ball, so to speak, is in your court, lady. Get moving.

"Victoria Marsden?" the woman says. "Can you confirm that's you?"

"I'll neither confirm nor deny anything until I know who you are," I say, "and why you're on my property."

The woman looks around and then arches a manicured eyebrow. "_Your _property? I was under the impression this apartment complex belonged to an overweight man named Sal who has an affinity for sloppy joe sandwiches."

She knows Sal? Odd. I wasn't aware that anyone in their right mind would willingly go within fifty feet of Sal. Let's just say he bathes less than peasants in the European Middle Ages.

And she's sassy.

"Who are you," I repeat, "and why are you here? Please answer these questions before I beat your brains out." My voice sounds calm, pleasant even, but my heart is pounding and I feel anxiety rising up in me. The way she's just appeared…her all-dark outfit…

She's with them. She's from the agency I escaped from. She's come to take me back.

I won't let it happen again. I won't let them freeze me for another half century. I won't do it.

"Sorry," I suddenly say, smiling sweetly. "My name isn't Victoria. I don't know any Victoria."

She raised an eyebrow and calmly asks, "Then who are you?"

"My name is Fizzy," I say.

"Fizzy," she repeats, as if she doesn't quite believe me.

"Yes," I say. "Fizzy…Lange." I've just made a random last name up on the spot.

"Fizzy Lange." The woman stares at me for a moment and I grudgingly give her this—she doesn't seem put off at all. In fact, she seems vaguely amused. "Alright, Fizzy…Lange," she says. "Whatever your name is…I'd like you to come with me."

"I don't make a habit of going off with strangers," I say, tightening my grip on my pipe. "Haven't you heard? That's _dangerous_."

She nods to my steel pipe. "I'd say you're pretty good at handling danger."

"I'd say you're right. So please leave."

"I'm not dangerous, Fizzy," she says slowly. "I _can _be dangerous if I need to. But I'm not a danger to you. I work for an organization called SHIELD—you may have heard of us."

I recall hearing something about it at some point in time…but nothing quite concrete comes to mind. I don't even know the name of the organization that held me for so long. For all I know, it could very well be this SHIELD. I'm not going anywhere with this SHIELD.

"I haven't," I say, "and I'm not interested." My mind begins racing then. How do I get myself out of this?

_Think, Fizzy. You haven't built yourself up for this long only to get caught NOW!_

_ Shut up. I'm thinking._

_ Think faster!_

_ SHUT UP!_

I look up at her through my lashes and try to put on my best innocent face. It's difficult but it's still there; once upon a time I was very innocent. "Listen, I don't know who you or SHIELD are—" I use every bit of energy I can and send my pipe hurtling at her. It moves so quickly that she can't move out of the way in time and it smashes into her face. I'm off and running to the fire escape before I can see what's happened to her. This is my favorite move; I use it all the time. Catch them off their guard. I practically throw myself over the edge of the building onto the escape, leaping down the steps and skipping quite a few. When I get to the last level, I don't bother climbing down but yank myself over the railing and _throw _myself to the ground.

I land on my feet—ow, my knees—but before I can make a run for it, dark shapes are sprinting at me from both ends of the alley. I know it's useless but I'm not one for giving up so easily so I try anyway: I make a mad dash for the closer alley exit, sliding past one man in dark clothes (being so skinny and fast really helps you on the streets), blasting another man back a few feet and whirling out of his grip like smoke in the hand—

Only to be tackled by five different other people in dark clothes. I'm fast and I'm strong but I'm not _that _fast or strong. One 110 pound girl tackled by five highly athletic…agents or whatever? I don't stand a chance. We all go crashing the ground, I taste blood in my mouth, and then I'm eating the gravel. They lay on top of me, crushing me for a moment, and then my hands are wrenched backwards and I feel cold handcuffs snapped onto my wrists behind my back. I then feel someone forcibly wrap something around my neck. _This_, my friends, is vaguely terrifying so I kick out to try and stop them. Someone grabs my legs and holds them down while the other person wraps the thing around my neck. It feels plastic and cold and hard. Then I'm yanked upwards into standing position.

The woman comes walking around the corner, wiping away blood from her nose, wincing slightly. "Nice shot," she tells me. "Very impressive."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're not angry?"

"Oh, I'm very angry," she says. "You almost messed up my face. My face is one of my best assets."

It's true. She's very pretty. If I had a face like that, I'd use it to my advantage too. Briefly, for just a second, I remember Connie—dark hair, smiling mouth, the flashes of jealousy I'd feel when I saw her—but then I push it far deep down inside of me where the rest of the memories of my…past life remain.

She catches sight of the thing around my neck and shakes her head. "No. Take that off her."

"But Agent Romanoff," starts one of the men holding my arms tightly.

"Off!" she commands. "Now! She's not a prisoner. We're not going to put an electronic _collar _on her, Davies." She gives the man such a disgusted look that I can feel Agent Davies recoil.

"Yeah, _Davies_," I snap. "Be a man. Take the collar off. What's the matter, scared of a little girl?" I'm no little girl, but I use that term to my advantage whenever I can. You can use it to either shame an opponent and make them hesitate (and then proceed to beat them bloody) _or _goad a sadistic, sexist opponent on (and then proceed to beat them bloody).

Hey, don't look at me like that. We can't all look like models, like Miss Ginger Agent here.

"However, I _will _put a muzzle on you if you don't shut up," Agent—what's her name? Romanoff? Sounds vaguely Russian, except Russians don't do the whole "off" sound, do they?—Romanoff states baldly.

They hustle me down the alley to a sleek black large car that waits at the entrance, blocking off the alley from the view of people on the street. I'm trying my hardest not to panic right now—but basically I'm panicking a lot. My heart is hammering and my mouth's gone dry. My violent tendencies and powers are only so much help and without my hands…I can't do anything. If SHIELD is the organization that held me for so long…not only will I be frozen again, but I'll be _punished _first. I can't do this. I'm going to vomit.

"I can't do this," I say and I turn and promptly vomit on the agent gripping my right arm.

He jumps back with a cry of disgust and alarm as a rush of pinkish vomit hits his shoes. "Jesus Christ!" he shouts.

"No, my name is Fizzy," I say weakly, wiping my mouth, "though I have been mistaken for the Lord once or twice."

The agent holding me on my _other _side begins to laugh uncontrollably and now we have a very odd scene. One agent is laughing his guts out, I've just vomited my guts out, the other agent looks like he wants to vomit _his _guts out, the agents behind us are all staring at us, and Agent Romanoff looks torn between wanting to kill everyone and wanting to laugh.

"Alright," she says loudly. "Kujowski, if you can't handle a little bit of vomit, don't bother coming back to headquarters in the car. You can walk like the schoolboy you apparently are."

"But Agent—" the man protests.

"Walk, Kujowski," she orders.

Agent Kujowski gives me a furious glare (_Oh dear, making enemies already, Fizzy? Typical!_) and storms off down the alleyway to the exit on the other side. Agent Romanoff shoves me into the car and the agent holding my arm—a tall Mexican-looking man—slides in after me, his face suddenly composed again. The other agents from the alley get into a different car across the street. Agent Romanoff slides into the shotgun seat and then we're off and gliding away down the streets.

I admit, this is…different. I've never been in a car this luxurious before. Cars weren't something I sat in often back in my past life and ever since I've stumbled into this world, I've been poor and usually homeless. (A few families tried to take me in once or twice…but let's not discuss those disasters, shall we?) The seats are smooth and buttery soft and the air conditioning (a truly lovely invention of this century) hits me like a refreshing icy blast on this blazing hot summer day.

Ah yes. The AC, I like.

"So where are we going?" I demand. No one answers me. "Where are the headquarters?" I try again. No response. "Where's Waldo?" I say. Hey, don't look at me—I was desperate to read something and I found it in a dumpster, okay?

Finally Agent Romanoff turns and says, "Don't worry, sweetie. It's no secret. You'll see, soon."

Fair enough. I sit in silence, contemplating whether I can escape or not (hint: not), when we're suddenly rounding up a simply enormous building. I know this building. Not personally, of course, I don't make a habit of forming friendships with architecture, but I've seen its name and picture in the newspapers every now and then, when I make an effort to look at the newspapers. It's called the Triskelion.

"_This _is SHIELD headquarters?" I demand. "This is enormous!"

"That it is," remarks Agent Romanoff.

"But this is so obvious!" I say. "It's not discrete at all!" I don't know why I'm saying this—except…the organization that kidnapped me and held me captive for so long…their building was deep in the woods somewhere miles from here. If SHIELD was them…why would they be in such an enormous, obvious building here in the heart of the city?

Agent Romanoff shrugs. "Once, SHIELD wasn't very well-known. Very low radar. But we've grown in recent years. Especially after the New York fiasco." She grimaces. "It is what it is."

We slide into a side entrance garage inserted into one wall of the building around the corner and then the agent next to me is grabbing me and hustling me out. We move so quickly that I stumble trying to keep up with them. We shove through some glass doors and then we're moving quickly down a pristine white corridor. The walls are white with glass cases inserted all down the hall, the floor is white, and lights are white—and I lose my mind. I admit, in retrospect, I may have overdone it—but the sight of all that white ignites a panic in my like no other. It looks so sterile, like the building I was held in for so long.

I jerk back as violently as I can and then I slam my arms out as far as I can. Let me just tell you—smashing your arms in opposite directions while wearing hand cuffs? _Painful_. I can feel my wrists getting slashed but I keep slamming my wrists apart, wrenching as hard as I can. My eyes are screwed up and I focus harder than I ever have in my life. And it works—sort of. I was aiming more for breaking apart my handcuffs…but instead the glass cases all up and down the hall explode, shards flying everywhere. The agents all let out cries of shock and I slip past my agent, slide past Agent Romanoff who makes a grab for me—a very _close _grab, I might add; her hands whistle right past where my waist was seconds ago—and I run down the hall.

Another thing to add—running in handcuffs? Not easy. I feel like an awkward, desperate penguin as I stumble-sprint down the hall. I'm an idiot, of course. I should have gone _backwards_, out the doors to the garage and then out into the streets. As it is, I'm heading into the heart of SHIELD, where I'll be surrounded by hundreds of agents.

So naturally I'm rolling my eyes at myself even as I burst through the doors at the end of the hall and get body-slammed by an agent near me who realizes I'm clearly up to no good. I hit the ground _hard_, skidding far on the glossy surface, and then I lay there, blinking up at the glass ceiling dozens and dozens of feet above me as Agent Romanoff storms up to me, shaking glass out of her hair.

"You done?" she demands.

The pain from shredding my wrists on my cuffs, getting cut by shards of glass, and getting tackled _combined _with the enormous energy expenditure used to explode every glass case in the hallway… Let's just say that it's taken its toll on me.

"Yes," I spit somewhat dizzily and then I black out.

Dramatic, I know. But at least I've made a fantastic first impression, no?

* * *

**A/N: First chapter (technically) down! I apologize to anyone who was jarred by the sudden switch in tenses, setting, and…basically everything! The story was always meant to be this way. The first chapter was essentially a prologue to this story. Hopefully I've still managed to keep at least one of you interested in reading on after this sudden switch. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

Do you know that feeling between sleeping and waking? That feeling where you're still asleep but a part of you is awake and realizes you're still sleeping. You hover in between midnight and dawn and the feeling is beautiful because you're awake enough to appreciate how asleep you truly are. It may be quite possibly the loveliest feeling in the universe and it's a feeling I haven't felt in what feels like a century. But I feel it now and I snuggle down into my soft blankets and smile to myself.

You know what else I haven't felt in what feels like ages? The feeling of sleeping on a soft, comfortable bed. The feeling of having a soft mattress and a proper pillow and clean, fluffy blankets. In fact, it's not something I think I've ever quite _completely _felt before, since the bed in my old life was still quite hard—compared to this one anyway—but especially in the past four years, when I've slept wherever I can without being arrested…

This. Is. Heaven.

I smile to myself and feel myself drifting back off into the nice world of Sleepland and—

Hang on. Where _am _I?

My eyes snap open and I sit up suddenly in a panic, throwing my blankets off of me. I'm in a very nice room, quite possibly the nicest room I've ever stayed in. It's small but very clean and has painted gray walls, minimalistic sort of paintings on the walls (of which I'm not too fond of; what's the _point _in just painting a cube? How is that art?) and vases of white lilies on the bedside tables. The blanket on the bed is pure white, as is the carpet. The whole room has an air of modernity and cleanliness.

And one entire wall is glass. I get out of the bed, noticing I'm still wearing my disgusting street clothes, and pad over to the window. Look out. See…a river. The Potomac River. So I'm still in the Triskelion. I wasn't aware it was a hotel as well as a secret agent agency headquarters. But perhaps special agents like to live in comfort as well.

Okay. I've had enough of the nice view. I walk over to the door of the room, pull, and—nothing. I yank again, more roughly this time, and again—nothing. "Hey," I say, and then more loudly, "HEY! Someone! Please let me out of this room!"

No one answers and a sick feeling builds in my chest. This can't be happening to me again… The room I'm in is nicer than any room I was given before—hell, I never even had a room before—but I'm still trapped and it still feels like there's a weasel trying to climb out of my throat and I'm choking now, and—

How have I ended up on the floor? I'm on all fours, wheezing, trying to control my panic and the urge to vomit at the thought of what's coming next—more tests and pain—

The door bangs open and someone grabs my arm and hauls me upright. I'm blinking and gasping into the face of a petite-yet-tough looking women with brown skin, short shiny black hair, and almond-shaped dark brown eyes. "Breathe," she commands. "Here, breathe into this." She shoves a bag in my face and I grab it but I have no idea what to do with it—how is a bag going to help me?—and she opens it and shoves it into my face. "Breathe!" she commands again and I breathe into it, trying to calm myself down.

Eventually it works.

But then I remember where I am and I panic all over again. I pretend to breathe normally and then I shove the agent as hard as I can. To her credit, she probably only falls over because she completely was not expecting me to attack her. Then I run out the door, slamming it behind me. I look wildly right and left—both ways are empty and white carpet, white walls, white lights. Uncomfortable. I don't know which way will lead me out so I choose right on an impulse and begin running. I hear the door to my room bang open and the agent shouts down the hall, "Miss Marsden, please stop! You'll only hurt y—"

I'm so busy running that I don't take notice of her. I should have, however, because she's right—I _do _hurt myself. I skid around the corner and gasp as I realize there are stairs _right _in front of me. I can't stop myself at all so I go tumbling down the stairs, letting out shouts the whole way, and end up in a crumpled heap at the bottom, groaning. Why is it that I'm so agile on the streets but I come to this place and I'm getting tackled and falling over left and right? I've lost my touch, it seems.

The female agent rushes down the stairs at the same time a blonde woman runs up the second flight of stairs. They both grab me and help haul me up and the female agent from my room exclaims, "Miss Marsden, if you could stop attempting to _run _for perhaps ten minutes, we could sort all this out!"

"You're the ones who're holding me here for no reason!" I shout angrily. "Why are you trying to make yourself look like the good guys? You locked me in my room!"

"For your own _safety_," the agent says in exasperation. "Let's see." She begins ticking off on her fingers. "First Agent Romanoff approaches you and asks you to come with her. You attack her and run. We bring you here—"

"In handcuffs," I snap.

"Well, _yes_," she says. "You attacked one of our agents! You seemed out of control! Even residents in hospitals can be restrained if they're showing they're going to be harmful. It's not always a sign that we're trying to _hurt _you. Let's see…so we bring you back here and you attack us again. Might I add that you've injured some very good agents? You run into the main entrance looking absolutely wild and _yes_, we had agents tackle you. We were afraid you might bring the roof down and hurt innocent people. Then you wake up in a perfectly nice room with no hand cuffs and you have a panic attack and when I come in to help you, you attack me. Who is really at fault here?"

"You," I say nastily, glaring at her. "You're still the people who brought me here forcibly. When I said no to Agent Romanoff on the room, why didn't you leave me alone? What happened to _freedom_?"

The agent sighs and rubs her temples and the blonde agent gives her a look and then speaks to me. "I'm Agent 13," she says. "Sharon Carter. Listen—I hear you, alright? I understand you, too. Perhaps we didn't go about this the right way at all. But the problem is…we were in a bit of a hurry. You're in danger and we needed to get you into a safe place _immediately_."

I look at her suspiciously. Sharon Carter…that means she's technically an Agent Carter. I once knew an Agent Carter. "What do you mean I'm in danger?" I finally ask. I don't want to. I don't want to ask these people _anything_. I want to get out of here and leave Washington D.C. and go hide in some other state. Maybe California. I can live on the beach and be a sand hobo and eat ice creams in the sun and everything will be fine and dandy. But it's obvious that these SHIELD people will not be letting me go any time soon and I'm a bit exhausted from my two pointless and poorly-thought-out escape attempts, so I may as well get as much information out of them as possible.

Before I attempt my third poorly-thought-out escape attempt, of course.

"We can explain everything," says Agent 13. "You just need to control your temper and hear us out. Can you do that?"

I can control my temper. I admit, I may have some anger issues—but I can control them when I need to. I think. "Yes," I say grudgingly.

"First things first," says the other agent. "I suspect you're probably hungry _and _you'd probably like to wash up and change. I can bring clothes to your room as long as you promise not to strangle me with your pants."

I stay silent. I can't make that promise. Murder by pants is quite tempting.

"I'm Agent Gutierrez, by the way," she offers. "You're Victoria Marsden, correct?"

"Yes," I say, though I don't really feel like Victoria much these days. I'm Victoria underneath but I'm all rough and mean Fizzy on top. "You can call me Fizzy too, if you want."

Agent Gutierrez gives me the strange look everyone gives me when they hear my nickname but nods and says, "Alright. Let's go back to your room, alright? You can wash up, change, eat something—and then we'll explain everything to you. You'll even get to meet the director of SHIELD eventually, if you want."

"I want," I say grimly. "I definitely want." I have a few choice words for this director of SHIELD. Namely about his poor people-retrieval services.

Agent Gutierrez leads me back to my room and shows me the shower. "Go ahead," she says. "I can let myself in with a keycard, so you can close the door."

"Hey, how did you know I was having a panic attack before?" I ask before she leaves.

"We have cameras in the room," she says and then she's gone.

Yeah. Suddenly I don't think I'll be changing clothes in the room anymore. I head into the bathroom, strip, and take a hot shower. I want to make it quick but I can't help it—my aching muscles love the feeling of hot water and I haven't had the opportunity to _really _take a long, hot shower without worrying that someone may come home and find me in…in years. So even though I try to keep it quick…the shower actually runs pretty long as I clean myself to sparkling perfection.

I get out, wrap myself in a towel, and exit the bathroom to see a bowl of fruit on my bedside table and some folded clothes. I grab the stack and change in the bathroom, observing myself when I'm done. They're very strange clothes, if I'm going to be honest. They look almost like scrubs—it's a loose navy blue t-shirt in a thin cotton material with loose navy blue drawstring pants. I look like I'm off to a rotation at some hospital (though in my time, nurses wore stiff white dresses and aprons). I brush my auburn hair back and examine my face. I know I shouldn't care, but the old twinge runs through me, the twinge that says, _You're not very pretty_. Freckles across my nose. Scarlet lips. Gray-blue eyes that seemed electric sometimes but are dull most of the time. Amazing, how the feeling of inadequacy hasn't gone away even though the years have passed.

Yes, yes, go ahead and say it. I'm a shallow beastie. We all have our flaws.

I leave the room and rifle through the bowl of fruit, feeling a bit peeved off. I'm starving (okay, close enough) skinny homeless person. They couldn't have provided some eggs and toast or something? I peel open a banana and hardly have time to take one bite before there's a knock on the door and it flies open. Agent Gutierrez marches in, asks, "Ready?" and leads me out of the room before I can answer. (Not that I could answer anyway, with a mouth stuffed with banana mush. Classy.)

She rests a hand on the small of my back—presumably to steer me _and _keep me from going mental and running off again—but it makes me feel twitchy and I dance out of her grasp, giving her my nastiest glare. And to my credit, she does look taken back for a moment. I've perfected a very mean glare, I think, and it's something to be proud of. Something you need to perfect when you're on the streets and you need to send the message, _Keep walking _to someone who sees you as a potential victim. She doesn't touch me again but leads me down several confusing, twisty-turny hallways into a large room that—thank God—isn't all-white. The all-white makes me feel extremely jumpy. This room has cream painted walls with pale blue sofas and armchairs and dark wood furniture. Tasteful. I hate it.

"Take a seat," says Agent Gutierrez. "I'll get Agent Lansky and Agent 13."

"What? You're not going to be talking to me?" I ask.

"No," she says. "I'm not cleared for that. This is Agent Lansky and Agent 13's case." She steps out of the room and I sit awkwardly on a pale blue armchair—and promptly sink about a foot into it. Either I'm small or the chair is extremely large and squishy because it's all I can do prop myself back up and flip myself out of my chair. I wonder if they're watching me. They probably are. They're probably laughing at me and my inability to get out of chairs. I wonder if they'd laugh if I threw a chair at where I presume one of the cameras is.

I don't have to wait long. The door opens and two agents step inside. One of them is the blonde agent I met earlier, Agent 13. The other is a woman with an unfortunate shock of ginger hair. This must be Agent Lansky. They both stride forward and introduce themselves, holding out their hands to shake. I give them cold looks and don't shake their hands. I'm not about to play nice with the people holding me against my will until I get an explanation.

"Why don't you take a seat," suggests Agent Lansky.

"Why don't I not," I say. I'm going for flippant—but I actually just don't want to sit in the stupid squishy chair and look like an idiot in front of them when I can't get back up.

Agent Lansky blinks and then shrugs. "Your call." She leans against the desk behind her and says, "I suppose you want to know why we've brought you in here."

_Gee. You think, lady? Do you think this is normal?_

"Where should we start?" she asks, looking at Agent 13. "This is a bit delicate…"

"New York," suggests Agent 13 and I can't help but get distracted by her looks. She's so pretty. It's not fair—why is everyone around me so much better looking than me?

Okay, I'm better looking than Agent Lansky. I'll admit that.

"Victoria—"

"Fizzy," I say.

"Where did that nickname come from?" she asks.

I can't tell her _that _story without revealing too much about myself. So I shrug and say, "I forgot. Just call me that, alright?" I don't really like hearing my proper name much. It reminds me of too many things I wish I could just forget completely. Like my entire past.

"Alright then…Fizzy," she says, and you can tell she feels awkward using the weird nickname. "How much do you know about the Battle of New York?"

The Battle of New York. Yes. That…weirdness. It happened two years ago and I admit, it happened around the time when I was still a gutter rat and didn't have any street power or friends or anything. I'd been so busy hiding and cowering that I didn't pay attention to the details—but still, I'd obviously been _aware_ that some massive battle was going on in New York that involved aliens, of all the things. It didn't alarm me as much as it should have because for all I knew, battles with aliens were a common thing in these times. But they didn't, I figured out eventually. What had happened in New York was a big deal. One of those things where everyone in the nation remembers where they were when the news hit—like Pearl Harbor or Black Tuesday. Black Tuesday I remembered well. It had happened in my childhood, true, but it had been a dark and terrible day. I still remembered the fear and panic and rioting that had gone on in the streets. And Pearl Harbor...well that was what tipped the nation over the edge.

I was also aware that some team called the Avengers had defeated the aliens. They included a guy named Captain America. I wasn't interested in ever looking at his face or knowing his name. I knew they'd had different Captain Americas over the years in costume, for parades and events and such—but this was the first time they'd used someone in his costume to fight a battle. From what I know, they even call him "Steve Rogers", which I find so disrespectful and sickening. So I've avoided any and all news to do with the Avengers or this imposter Captain America. It hasn't been that hard—people on the street aren't exactly sitting around reading newspapers and playing with action figures.

"I know the basics," I say.

Agent 13 quirks her dark blonde eyebrows. "And…do you know about Captain America?"

"The imposter," I say bluntly.

"Excuse me?" she asks, clearly confused.

"Some man they've masqueraded as Steve Rogers," I tell her, glaring.

Her mouth falls open and she exchanges a look with Agent Lansky. I can't quite tell what the look means but they look as if they can't believe what I've just said. As if what I've said is crazy. But what's crazy about it? It's true. They've got some large man in a suit masquerading as my long-dead best friend. Sickening but true. I don't know why they're giving each other these looks but I've the feeling that I'm missing something. I'm just about to ask what when Agent Lansky shakes her head (wild red curls fly everywhere) and says, "Okay, let's move on. Let me explain to you what SHIELD is."

"Go ahead," I say.

"SHIELD stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. That's a pretty fancy way of saying we're a branch of the government and we deal mostly with espionage, law enforcement, suppressing and hunting down threats…"

I freeze and stare at her in alarm. It feels like a block of ice is growing larger and larger in my throat. Hunting down _threats_? Just when SHIELD starts to seem normal—it doesn't anymore and it reminds me of the facility and the people who held me captive for so long. I never knew what organization they belonged to or what their names were so I can't quite be certain they weren't a part of this SHIELD.

Agent Lansky seems to notice my alarm and my trembling hands and then _she _looks alarmed and says, "Calm down, Vi—Fizzy. We're not here to hunt you down. We're here to help you."

"I'll decide that for myself when your story is done," I say through gritted teeth. "Go on." My adrenaline is flowing again and I can't help but scan the room for possible escape routes. A habit, when you're small and on the streets. You know at any moment you could be cornered by some not-so-nice people so you make a habit of planning your escapes quickly. As far as I can see, this room would be quite easy to get out of. One whole wall is glass, overlooking the Potomac River.

I mean, I probably wouldn't survive the fall. But at least I'd be able to make a dramatic exit.

"SHIELD mostly deals with the supernatural, the paranormal, whatever you want to call it," she says. "We're the division that deals with the things that other branches of the government don't know how to handle—and we do it discretely."

"This building isn't discrete," I point out.

"No," she admits. "It's not. In the last decade SHIELD has grown to unimaginable sizes. We used to be much more private. And after the Battle of New York…well, that put us on the map. Suddenly every American citizen—everyone around the world, actually—knew SHIELD's name. We became as well known as the FBI or CIA. Better known, in fact, since we deal with the ones the world calls superheroes."

"The Avengers," I say.

"Yes. Anyway, after the Battle of New York, we realized something. We realized that other forms of existence and people with powers were all around us. For a long time SHIELD only dealt with human spies. But as the decades have gone by, we've become more aware of people who aren't quite human. People like yourself. We have SHIELD teams that travel around the world, finding people like you and—"

"What right do you have to do this?" I ask angrily, clenching my fists. A vase on the desk trembles and I try to calm myself down before I destroy something. "Taking innocent people—who cares if they have powers? It's none of your business!"

"Unfortunately, it is, Fizzy," says Agent 13. "We don't hold these people captive or hurt them. We try to help them, teach them how to control themselves, teach them how to live without exposing themselves. Often these people are poor, friendless, and alone. Like yourself."

Oh. Well _now _I'm just offended. Even though she's not wrong.

"So we often times help them get jobs, whether for SHIELD or away from SHIELD," she continues. "It's all about suppressing any potential threats _while _maintaining the good of humanity. We're not a killer execution squad, if that's what you're thinking."

"Well, like I was saying," says Agent Lansky, "in recent years we've been discovering more and more people with powers—whether natural-born or man-made. So we've decided to become proactive in this matter. We've had scientists work on devices that are silent and can be hidden out of sight, but can be planted around cities and can detect when someone uses supernatural powers. Usually you people emit waves on a frequency that normal humans don't—and these devices pin-point these waves and then take photos of whoever is nearby. Then we figure out who was at the scene every single time these waves were detected and we pinpoint a potential suspect. I'll give you this: you've been stealthy. It's taken us nearly _two years _to find you. We didn't even really start detecting you till two years ago."

That makes sense. I escaped four years ago but I was too afraid to use my powers the first two years I was out. It's only been two years since I've gotten bolder, nastier, and started using my powers more.

"When we finally got enough photos of you, we ran them through our systems, hoping to find a match—and we did find a match." Agent 13 hesitates and then looks at me, running her fingers through her short blonde waves. "Do you want to know what we found?"

"Do tell," I say. I keep my voice bland but inside my heart rate is building.

"Our facial recognition program matched you up with an old photo that can be found inside the Smithsonian Museum," says Agent 13 slowly. "A photo of a girl next to two men. Her name was Victoria Marsden. She was best friends with Captain Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, one of his Howling Commandos. Does that mean anything to you?"

They know. They know who I am. _Of course_ they know—a part of me knew they knew the second Agent Romanoff called me by my real name. How else would they know my real name if they didn't know who I was? But I'd been hoping they'd perhaps never bring it up. It's too surreal to discuss. It's too painful. I don't want to talk about this.

"Maybe," I say.

Agent 13 and Agent Lansky both give me looks that say _We know you're Victoria _but they must see something in my expression (hint: it probably looks like pure anger) that makes them realize I'm not going to discuss this right now. So Agent Lansky says, "Well…you can tell us how you got from, er, _then_ to now at a later time. We'll table that discussion. But as for why we brought you in here…at first we were willing to leave you on the streets—"

"How nice of you," I say dryly.

"—because you didn't seem like much of a threat," she says. "But in the past few months some of our agents have picked up chatter from an unknown source about you. It seems some other group of people—and we don't know their name yet—have pinpointed that you are in D.C. and want to come and get you. And that was when we knew we had to move quickly. We don't know who these people or what group they belong to but we knew letting other people get their hands on you was a bad idea."

I don't know what to say. I still don't trust SHIELD _at all _but I think it's relatively safe to assume that they're not the people who held me captive for so long. But this other group Agent Lansky's mentioned…this other group very well could be. And in that case, I can't tell if I'm grateful or not that SHIELD's dragged me in. I hate being locked up inside this sterile building and I want to escape as quickly as possible but I have to admit: it would be hard for anyone to capture me in here.

"So how did you find me so suddenly?" I demand,

"We didn't," says Agent Lansky. "We've been covertly tracking you for the past year. We got wind of your powers two years ago but it's only been a year since we've been watching you."

I freeze at that and stare at Agent Lansky in abject horror. They've been _watching _me for a whole _year_? Without me noticing anything? That means they've seen everything I've done in the past year. They've seen me beat kids up. They've seen me break into stores and steal things. They've seen me covertly use my powers.

Dear god, they've seen me acting out Shakespeare on rooftops.

"Yeah, I know, it sounds awful," she says apologetically. "But you set off the radars in a big way. A lot of latent power in you, you know that?"

"What kind of jerk government organization watches a starving kid for a year and doesn't offer to help them?" I demand.

To their credit, Agent Lansky and Agent 13 color a little but Agent 13 calmly says, "We were told not to get involved. Had you been in _serious _threat of injury or starvation, we would have intervened. But you seemed to do alright on your own. Impressive, actually. You'll make an excellent fighter, with some training."

"You keep doing that," I snap. "You keep acting like SHIELD is all nice and good and just wants to protect me from the bad guys. But then you say stuff like _that _and all I can hear is that you want to turn me into a weapon. Like the other people…"

"The people who held you before?" prompts Agent 13 gently.

I know what she's doing. I'm not an idiot. She's trying to get me to tell my pathetic story. And honestly, why not? It's not like we're about to sit down and have a nice girly chat and I'm going to cry and spill all my feelings. I won't tell them about how I felt through all of this. But I can give them the basics. I take a deep breath and quickly say, "They kidnapped me. Froze me in some sort of…thing. Woke me up a couple of times every year to do some training, go through some obstacle courses, practice using my…powers against people. If I messed up or refused to do something, they punished me." My voice falls flat then as I remember—

No. Never mind. I won't think back upon that. It's not healthy for my mind.

"Someone who worked there helped me escape four years ago," I say. "I don't know what happened to him. They probably killed him. I ran away and I've been on D.C.'s streets ever since then. And I'm doing fine. I don't want to be trained again. I don't want to be turned into a weapon. I _won't_."

"That's fine," Agent 13 says quickly, probably noticing my trembling hands again. "You don't have to do anything at all. But I'll just let you know that if you were to train with _us_, it would be by your choice. We're not freezing you in anything. We're not punishing you. We're not forcing you. You make your own decisions. Training would only benefit your safety."

"All I want," I say tiredly, "is to leave and go back home." At that moment, even I'm not sure which home I'm referring to.

The streets—?

Or my real home? Because that one is impossible to get back to.

"Unfortunately," says Agent Lansky, "that'll be impossible for the time being. Until we figure out what group this is that wants you, you're going to be staying with SHIELD. I'll be your guard."

"What?" I shout. "My guard? I don't want to stay here! I can handle myself! I want to leave!"

"It won't be so bad," Agent Lansky says cajolingly. "We have a gym, a theater, a pool…every amenity you would want. I can get you movies, books, whatever you think of. Aren't you tired of starving and sleeping on rooftops? You're a twenty-year-old girl, don't you think you've suffered enough? You need a break."

And alright, I admit it. For a moment, I'm sorely tempted. The thought of a warm, soft bed and food always available and the chance to relax and let my guard down for a moment…perhaps I could just stay for a—

No. _No. What are you thinking, you idiot? _

I mentally smack myself upside the head and then face Agent Lansky. "No."

"You don't have much of a choice in the matter," she says slowly. "I see how this must seem—like we're going against everything we've said about choice—but we _can't _let you fall into the wrong hands or hurt yourself. You're too powerful. Lives are at stake here, Victoria."

Oh, for god's sake. Why must everyone forget my new name is Fizzy?

"You can try to explode the windows or doors and escape," says Agent 13, "but every agent in the vicinity has been alerted to your presence and is now carrying a Taser. So it may not work out so well for you."

"What's a Taser?" I ask.

"You don't want to find out," says Agent 13. "Won't kill but it hurts like hell _and _it'll incapacitate you for a long time. Trust me, I've been Tasered. It's not fun."

Okay. So it seems like I don't have much of a choice in the matter, not unless I want to be…Tasered or whatever it is she's talking about. Even if I manage to escape this floor, I can see I'm very high up—I'd have to get down probably at least ten floors before I even get close to the exit. Even an idiot can see that I have no chance of escape, not unless I slaughter every agent I encounter and somehow I don't think that's the best course of action, to leave a bloody trail behind me. So I swallow and say, "Fine. I'll stay here…for now."

Let them think I'm complacent. Let them think I've let my guard down. Little do they know, I'll be scoping out a way to escape. If my old organization is truly after me…I can handle it on my own. I don't need SHIELD to lock me up and feed me bananas and keep me safe. I've survived this long, I can keep doing it. And the first chance I get, I'll make my move and slip away. They've _got _to let their guard down at some point.

Agent Lansky and Agent 13 both look relieved that I haven't lost my marbles and started destroying things or slamming them around and I feel a little bit of evil, grim satisfaction at their relief. Little do they know what I have planned…

There's a knock at the door and then it opens and a woman pokes her head in. "13, Rumlow and Romanoff are back," she says. "Mission accomplished—but Director Fury wants a word with you."

"Right," says Agent 13. She says a quick goodbye to Agent Lansky and me and then heads off. I turn to see Agent Lansky staring off after them with an odd expression in her eye. I can't quite tell what it is, but _something _flickers in her eyes for a moment. Before I can figure it out, she snaps to and escorts me to my room.

* * *

As it turns out, waiting and plotting for a chance to escape is actually quite a boring task. Agent Lansky shoves me in my room and slams the door shut. I slam my fist on the door and yell, "Are you going to stand outside my room and guard me?" but get no answer. Goodie. Now I don't even know if she's out there or not. I hope not she's not. It'd be pretty boring for her, anyway, guarding a door. I wish Agent Gutierrez were the one guarding me; she seems a bit friendlier than Agent Lansky. Just a little bit more.

I don't know what to do so I pace up and down the room, feeling jittery. I can't believe I've agreed to this. Well—I haven't exactly _agreed_. It's not like I was given much of a choice. SHIELD kind of forced me into this with the unspoken threat that if I didn't cooperate willingly, they would force me to stay with them anyway…except I wouldn't be allowed to visit the pool or read books then. And heaven forbid I not get my entertainment while being held captive by an intelligence agency.

I wonder how the other group that wants me found me. Did they also have devices set up to track people with extra abilities? This isn't good news for me. The world is speeding up faster than ever. I already find _normal _technology bewildering; all these buttons, all these strange touch screens, people knowing things at the drop of a hat. It's dizzying and it frightens me. This is why I stay away from the Internet and technology. But _this_? This is even worse. This means I can be tracked and hunted no matter where I go…unless I simply never use my powers ever again. But that would prove harder than it sounds. Because not only are my powers semi-uncontrollable, but they're _intoxicating_. Using them feeds me, in a way. It makes me want to use them more and more.

_Alright, Fizzy, slow your horses—you're starting to sound a bit like a drug addict. _

I don't know what to do now. I stare out the glass wall of my room; it also faces the Potomac River, somehow. The sky is a bright blue and it looks like a beautiful sunny summer day. If I were free, I'd be stealing from tourists right now. Tourists are incredibly stupid about their belongings, just so you know. Just leave them hanging about everywhere.

I turn away from the window and begin to search the room. It's completely devoid of any belongings but I find a glossy booklet in the drawer of the bedside table and I slowly sit down on the bed, staring down at it. It's a SHIELD emergency exit manual, detailing exactly what to do in case of very specific emergencies. A bit useless, if you ask me. For one thing, the print is incredibly small. One could go blind _just _trying to read this manual. For another thing, in case of an emergency, who in heavens is going to hold up a finger and shout, "But wait! First we must read the _manual_!" and then proceed to go blind while trying to read about what to do when a herd of stampeding elephants overruns the building?

No, I'm not kidding. There's a section on what to do in case of an animal stampede. I don't even want to ask why it was put in there in the first place.

At the very back of the booklet are a few pages detailing all the various departments of SHIELD and names and contact numbers. I stare at the hundreds and hundreds of departments, mulling over this. Clearly SHIELD is an enormous organization with extremely far reach—and I'm willing to bet that many departments and names aren't even listed in this booklet. It _is _an intelligence and espionage agency. They're bound to have multiple secret department. Meaning their reach goes even further than what this book suggests. All in all, I've gleaned that SHIELD is huge, far-reaching, and very complex. There are probably teams and bases around the world doing all sorts of shenanigans that I probably don't want to know about.

What have I gotten myself into?

The day stretches on and I re-read the booklet to keep myself from going crazy. But after I've read the booklet a third time my patience is wearing very thin. I slam myself against the door and shout, "Let me out!" and get no response. Then I pound on the door and shout, "At least give me some _food_! What's wrong with you savages?" and get no response. I wonder if anyone is outside at all. Perhaps Agent Lansky has slipped away. Perhaps I'm shouting at no one. How embarrass—

I heard a thud and look down at my feet. A tray has been slid through a narrow slot at the base of the door that I hadn't noticed before. I bend down and pick it up only to let out a hiss and drop the tray immediately. It's _hot_. "Blast," I hiss to myself, hurrying to run cold water over my burned fingers. When I'm back in the room I turn and face the ceiling—where I assume the cameras are—and snap, "Thanks for letting me know it was burning hot. Are you lot trying to keep me safe or bore and burn me to death?"

I pick at the tray when it's cool enough to touch. It has an apple, a peanut and butter sandwich wrapped in plastic (how rude; what if I'd been allergic to peanuts?), a carton of milk, a carton of juice, a water bottle, a bag of chips, some spaghetti (which has now gone cold) and two granola bars. I don't want to eat. I want to throw the food at the window and make a mess. Show them what I think of their food and them holding me against my will. In fact, I think I will. I steel my resolve and pick up the tray, walking over to the window, and—

Oh, but that sandwich _does _look tasty…

_Oh, alright. Just one bite_, I promise myself, sitting on my bed and tearing into the sandwich. Except one bite turns to two and two turns to three and suddenly I've wolfed down practically everything on the tray and I'm staring at my sticky fingers, revolted with my pathetic resolve. But I guess I've been hungrier than I previously realized.

I shove my tray on the floor and then I lay back on my bed and watch the morning turn to later afternoon. I'm locked in a glass cage and I can't help but wish I were dead. I know, dramatic and morbid, no? But it's true. I wish I'd grown up when I was supposed to. Either way, I don't have my friends or family by my side. But at least if I'd grown up in the right time I would have had photos and memories of them. Now…now I'm just alone with the ghosts of my pasts. I clench my fists as I realize that this is the _second _time me using my powers has gotten me on someone's radar and gotten me captured. My mother was right—I should never have begun using my powers. I really am a tremendous idiot. I can only hope being captured this time doesn't end as terribly as the last time I was captured...

_Alright Fizzy. Enough of that sad talk._ I'm shaking myself off and getting back to normal, wiping my eyes and whatnot (must be allergies, right?) when my door suddenly bangs open and I jolt upright. Agent Gutierrez marches in and says, "Come with me. Now. Director Fury would like to meet you."

I leap to my feet, straightening my clothes, and ask, "Where's Agent Lansky? I thought she was my—guard or whatever."

"I've sent her off an errand," Agent Gutierrez says, her mouth a flat line. "Director Fury is a very busy man and he doesn't have much time to meet with you. Hurry up."

I look at Agent Gutierrez suspiciously. Something is not right here. Why would she send Agent Lansky away? And why, if all Director Fury wants to do is meet with me, does she look so tense? I narrow my eyes but silently follow her through the halls. There's no point asking questions but I'm not going to let my guard down now, not when I know something is not quite normal with this situation.

Agent Gutierrez moves quickly, winding down the halls, down three flights in an elevator, down some more halls, and then we're walking down a wide, silent hallway that seems a bit more formal and she's knocking on the wooden double doors. Something must signal to her that we can come in because she pushes the door open and then says, "Victoria Marsden, sir," and then hurries past me. As she passes me, I see her give me the faintest shadow of an encouraging smile and then she's gone, vanished down the hall. I tentatively step into the office, not sure what to expect. At this point a three-headed dragon would not surprise me.

What I find instead is a man. A man with black skin _and _dressed in all black. As always, the sight of a black man in a seat of power gives me a strange jolt. It's not a bad thing. I have nothing against anyone based on their skin color. In fact, it's one of the better things about this era that I've seen, that people are treated slightly more equally. But the fact remains, black folk weren't allowed positions like this in my time. And sometimes I need to remind myself that decades, not just four years, have gone by since my time.

"Hello, Victoria Marsden," he says, standing up. He's wearing one black eye patch and a long leather jacket with black leather gloves and he seems highly intimidating.

"Fizzy," I say. "Call me Fizzy."

"Strange nickname," he says. "I'm Director Nick Fury. I understand Agent Lansky and Agent 13 have already told you the basics about SHIELD and why you're here. Well…I'm going to need to tell you some more. But first we're going to go for a ride."

I don't know about _you_, but when a strange man tells you that you are going to go for a ride with him, _my _first course of action is to immediately be horrified and suspicious and to say, "Hell if I'm going anywhere with _you_. I don't even know you."

"And I'm sorry about that," he says, "but mark my words, this is part of your…safety plan. You want to go free from SHIELD eventually?"

"Yes," I say.

"Then you'll do as I say _now_," he says. "Trust me. Your life—and my life—may depend on it."

I have no reason to believe anything this man is saying. None at all. He could be a stark raving lunatic, for all I know. But as I stare into his one good eye and hear his loud and confident voice, I can't help but get the feeling that he knows _exactly _what he's talking about and that he's very much so telling to the truth—or that he at least very much so _believes _he is telling the truth. And besides, it's not like I have anything better to do _here_. So for once in my life I display a bit of common sense and obedience and nod and say, "What do you need me to do?"

"Walk down with me to my car," he says. "Smile. Talk. Laugh. Whatever. Act normal. And I promise—all will be explained in the car. I'm sorry to do this so suddenly but it is what it is."

He's making me hide my emotions from other SHIELD agents. My senses immediately pick up on something. Something is not right, here at the Triskelion. Is it the group that's after me? Have they somehow snuck into the building to come and get me? Or is it some different, new threat? Either way, I have no other option but to listen to this Nick Fury man, so I nod and say, "Done."

"Excellent," he says. "Now follow me, Miss Vic—Fizzy. And keep your best poker face on." He strides out the double doors of his office and I follow suit, keeping my head held high, shoulders held back, and a fake, cheerful smile plastered across my fake that proclaims how interested and excited I am at being held captive by SHIELD.

See? I've always known all my nights acting out Shakespeare would pay off.


	4. Chapter 4

We stride down the hall and as we go, Nick Fury casually points out random offices and statues every once in a while. His face isn't smiling but I have the feeling that smiling would actually be the _unusual _activity for him. I drop my smile as well. I began smiling at first but I've quickly realized that my reputation has probably spread through the building a bit as the crazy girl who's tried to escape twice—and smiling doesn't exactly go with the image. So I adopt the usual scowl I wear on my face and feign boredom and irritation every time Director Fury says anything to me. This way we don't seem suspicious but a totally normal pair of people (filled to the brim with more anger and annoyance than the average person, I suspect).

We've made it down to the second floor when suddenly someone calls, "Nick!" We both turn around and I see an older man, possibly in his sixties or seventies (though he still seems spry), striding towards us. He's white, had pale blonde hair that looks a bit fluffy, and when he gets closer, I actually have to bite back my gasp because he has the scariest eyes I've ever seen. Now, I'm no coward. I've been living on the run, always watching my back, for the past four years. I've tangled with some scary people. But this man's eyes…they're empty. Cold. Shark-like. They're pale blue and it's as if there's absolutely nothing behind them. Eyes that make me want to shrink back from him and hide behind Director Fury's fabulous leather coat-duster thing. But I'm tougher than that so I stand my ground and plaster a vague smile on my face, even though everything in my is screaming to get away from this man and his empty, empty eyes.

"Ah, Pierce," says Director Fury. I look at him. His tone is congenial but his good eye has hardened in a no-nonsense sort of way. First Agent Lansky, now him…either everyone at SHIELD is keeping secrets or people are just very fond at putting on vague, dramatic expressions on their faces for effect. "We just talked."

"That we did," he said. "I was just heading out to lunch—oh, but who's this?" He fixes his gaze on me and I try not to shudder.

"The name is Fizzy," I say.

"She's a new recruit," Director Fury says smoothly. Then he turns to me and says, "This is Alexander Pierce. Head of the World Security Council."

Alright…so Director Fury has just _lied _to the head of the World Security Council about who I am. Now my senses are tingling more than ever. Something is so completely wrong but the thing is, I'm so new to SHIELD—and this world—that I can't figure out what. And it's frightening me. I don't know where to turn, who to trust. I'm putting my faith in this Director Fury but for all I know, this could be an elaborate trap set by my old organization. I just don't know anything and the not knowing is killing me. Perhaps _literally_.

In case it wasn't apparent to you earlier…I'm a bit of a smarty-pants know-it-all. I don't like being kept in the dark.

"Interesting," says Alexander Pierce, piercing me with his terrifying gaze. "And do you, er, make a habit of showing around all new recruits, Nick?"

Without missing a beat, Director Fury goes, "Hell no. But you know, she has connections to SHIELD, her family's been in for generations, so I'm doing this as a favor for her grandmother."

"Right," says Alexander Pierce after a pause.

"I've got to get going," says Director Fury, "but we'll discuss things later."

Pierce smiles a totally creepy weirdo smile that should be outlawed and says, "That we will, Nick. That we will," and then he gives me another very hard, piercing stare—it's almost as if he _knows_ me, as if he knows who I am or something—and then he turns and stalks back down the hall where he was coming from.

"This way," says Director Fury and he's off down the hall at a pace that one could only describe as manic. I rush to catch up with him.

* * *

Nick Fury had to die. This much, Alexander Pierce thought to himself, was true. Nick Fury had been a good friend to him over the years—but it was time for him to retire. Permanently. Rather unfortunate, really, since it had been easy to pull the strings of a man who trusted him (or, if not trusted, _knew _him…since Nick Fury wasn't big on trust). Now he'd have to waste time schmoozing with whoever became the new director of SHIELD (since Pierce had no interest in manning that group of fumbling idiots; he only liked manipulating them to suit his own needs). But it was what it was. This had all come around because Fury had asked to postpone Project Insight. Pierce had kept a level expression on his face while curiously asking why but on the inside he was seething with rage and alarm. So Fury had picked up on the fact that something was not quite right with Project Insight…this was very disappointing. Pierce had been hoping that Fury wouldn't have noticed (well—at least not until the helicarriers began picking off innocent people by the thousands; at _that _point Fury would probably have noticed).

But Nick Fury was like a bloodhound. He had the innate sense on picking up on bullshit—whether large or small—and it was almost a miracle that Pierce had kept the HYDRA secret from him for so long. And once Fury was on the trail, there was no making him let go. He would sniff out the truth, hunt it down, follow it to the ends of the earth to figure out the deception. So Pierce decided that rather than wait for Fury to figure out what Project Insight was _really _about, he'd make the first move—the first move that would usher them into a bold new world.

He would kill Nick Fury.

Fury was a man who had had multiple attempts made on his life before. Therefore, he was extremely cautious and very suspicious. Any random HYDRA strike agent wouldn't do. No…to take Fury out, Pierce would have to utilize the ultimate asset—HYDRA's crown gem. The Winter Soldier. Pierce couldn't help but feel smug whenever he thought about the Winter Soldier project. The Winter Soldier, of course, was not the only asset HYDRA had. They had dozens and dozens of ongoing experiments, some of them successful and some of them not so successful. In fact, it had been HYDRA's fault that the serum that created the monster known as the Hulk had gotten out into the world. Pierce still winced when he thought about the beast they'd created. It wouldn't have been so unfortunate if Dr. Banner had been working for them, but no…Pierce knew Dr. Banner's sensibilities. He knew the man would rather die than work for HYDRA. So _that _was a colossal failure.

But the Winter Soldier was an ultimate success. He had been the one to help HYDRA make strides and leaps in their progress where they might have only been taking baby steps, without him. And he was just the man for a job like this. After Fury left Pierce's office, Pierce had called his contacts and told them to prep the Winter Soldier for another job. He wanted confirmed death in the next 24 hours, knowing the Winter Soldier operated better when he had some time to plan a kill at his own leisure.

He'd walked out of his office feeling pleased with himself, thinking to reward himself by eating out somewhere expensive, when he'd seen Fury walked down a hall on the second floor with a young girl with hair—golden-auburn hair. His blood had frozen. He remembered that hair; one didn't forget hair like that so easily. He composed his expression and called out to Fury, wondering, _Can it be…? _as Fury and the girl had turned around—

And yes. It had been her. _The girl_. Asset 56. That was what she had been called. The girl named Victoria Marsden, childhood friend of Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers—the men who would become the Winter Soldier and Captain America. The girl with powers unlike any others he'd seen before. He still remembered the first time he watched her in action. It had been 1990 and he'd just been promoted to the director's position at HYDRA, something he'd been groomed his whole youth to do. He'd ordered her to be taken out of cryo and then he put her through a series of physical obstacle courses and psychological tests to see her abilities. And her abilities were wondrous. The more frightened and panicked she got, the more psychological stress and strain she was under, the more powerful she became. Then he'd ordered her to be frozen again.

She was taken out a few times every year to have extensive testing done. He would watch from a camera; he never let her see his face. He never let her known HYDRA's name or the names of anyone who worked there. Sometimes she didn't comply and that was when they beat her. She complied most times. She was always confused, disoriented—but she still knew who she was. She would demand to know where she was, who they were. Demand for them to let her go. Called out for her mother, her father, for Steve, for Bucky. No one ever responded. The scientists were forbidden from talking to her. She'd never had her memory wiped because memory suppression took a great toll on one's mind and HYDRA only wanted to erase her memories when they were a hundred percent ready to send her into the field.

But they never got that chance. Some stupid, meddling scientist had let her go one day and she slipped away into the woods. It was two days before anyone even noticed she was gone and by then she'd had a huge head start on them and even the bloodhounds couldn't sniff her out in the woods. She was gone, vanished without a trace. As for the scientist…Pierce had made sure he had been killed in an extremely painful way, for losing Asset 56. He kept several teams searching for her over the past few years but with every passing year his hope of finding her dwindled. She was a young woman—how old would she be now? She was seventeen when taken, so she was twenty now—and she was small and wily and clever. She would have found herself a very good hiding spot and he wasn't sure if he'd ever sniff her out again.

And here she was. She had waltzed right into his arms like a prepackaged present, all wrapped up with a shiny satin bow. He couldn't believe it. It had taken all his willpower not to stare at her like she was a shiny new object to play with. Asset 56.

Now the Winter Soldier would have two missions: kill Nick Fury…and acquire Victoria Marsden.

* * *

Director Fury leads me down to the lower levels where they have garages and ushers me into a monstrosity of a vehicle, all large and angular and shiny black. It looks nothing like the cheerful, bumbling automobiles from my past; this thing looks like a beast that could run you over and reduce you to dust. I don't know what to call it. I slide into the passenger seat and buckle myself in, looking around in awe at the shiny chrome surfaces and glossy leather and—is that a television screen set into the front? Why on earth would someone need TV in their car?

Director Fury pulls out of the SHIELD garage and turns onto the main road that leads out of the Triskelion, a large bridge that passes over a small section of the Potomac. We stop at two checkpoints where they usher us through briskly, bearing checking his badge or anything. I suppose when you're a high-and-mighty like he is you needn't worry about things like being stopped at security.

We hit the Washington D.C. roads. It's a warm and sunny summer day so there's moderate traffic, as is usual in this city. I look over at Director Fury, who has a very serious expression on his face. I can't tell what he's thinking at all.

"So what were you sa—" I begin but he violently jerks a finger to his lips, ushering me to shut my pie hole.

So I shut my pie hole and wait. Every second that he remains silent is another second that my anxiety and suspicion rises. I'm feeling very twitchy and I surreptitiously creep my hand along to rest on the door handle in case I need to jump out suddenly to escape from him. I trust him more than I trust that sharky Alexander Pierce—but I still don't trust him very much at all.

He takes out a phone and quickly types something onto it and then passes it over to me, putting a finger to his lips again. I silently take it and read the screen, squinting past the shiny glare from the sun. Dear god, these things are _tiny_; how do people actually spend hours looking at them?

SHIELD COMPROMISED, it says. TAKING YOU TO A TRUSTED FRIEND IN A SAFE PLACE.

I looked at him and open my mouth to ask questions but he hisses, "Shhh," under his breath. I roll my eyes and look back at the screen. I try to type in my questions to pass back to him—but I can't handle these stupid little things. My fingers are clumsy and hit all the wrong buttons and suddenly the message typing screen and alphabet board is gone and I'm on a different screen. Where did his message go? I squint and look around, swiping at the screen randomly—but now it looks like I've opened a…what _is _this? There's numbers on the screen and a percentage sign and a plus sign—

Fury grabs the phone out of my hand and I can practically _hear _him roll his eyes. Not bad, actually. I can admire someone with a strong talent in sarcasm and scorning. I look at him and whisper, "What place?"

"New York city," he mouths and then he pulls down a screen from the roof in front of his face and begins pressing buttons. I fall back against my seat, feeling extremely shocked. New York city. _New York city_. My city. My home. To be honest, when I escaped from my facility, I considered going back to New York city—but I gave up on the idea before I even began it because A) there was no one left for me in New York city, and B) I had absolutely no idea how to travel that far without either being murdered or becoming a murderer.

And now I'm going back. I can't tell if I want to laugh or weep. Perhaps a little bit of both. I'm going back home—but it's not really home, is it? My home will be gone. The city will be changed. Everyone I know is dead.

I really should get that emblazoned on a shirt. A picture of a sad face and the words _Everyone I know is dead! _so people can know from the get-go how miserable my life is. I'll make a killing. I'll be the next fashion legend, probably.

I'm shaken out of my strange fantasy of designing shirts with terribly depressing slogans on them by a woman appearing on the screen that Fury's pulled down. She looks tall, thin, has high cheekbones, and brown hair pulled back from her face. "Director Fury," she says by way of introduction.

It's something I've noticed about this generation. No one says hello. What happened to the good old days of "Hello, ma'am," or "Thank you, sir"? No manners at all.

"Agent Hill," says Fury and I bit my lip to keep from making a surprised noise. He's _talking _to her—as if they're on a telephone. Except we can see each other on a screen and we're in a _car_. Technology truly is terrifying. "We have a fire in the building."

At these words, Agent Hill straightens up and her demeanor changes. She seems to become more urgent. "Really," she says. "How soon do you need m—"

"No, Agent Hill, I'm sending a parcel to you," he says. "A present from my wife. Keep it safe." He slowly turns the screen so it's facing me. I blink at this Agent Hill woman and she stares at me for a second. Fury turns the screen back to him and she nods. "I can keep your parcel safe," she says. "When will it arrive?"

He holds up three fingers and she nods again. "I'll be waiting at our favorite restaurant," she says and then her screen blinks out and he folds it back up, locking it onto the roof.

Fire in the building. Parcel. Favorite restaurant. Clearly, these are all code words. A bit lame, in my opinion, I can easily figure out what they mean—but maybe that's just because I'm in the know as to what is going on. This Agent Hill seems nice enough a woman. More importantly…it sounds as if she's the _only _person who will be watching me in New York city. Meaning I can easily get away from her and then hide. New York city was a large place even in my day, so I can only imagine how its grown. SHIELD will never be able to find me. I'll never use my powers again and I'll become a chimney sweep or something.

Do people still have chimneys these days?

We approach a stoplight and Fury looks out my window. I turn to look too. There's a police car next to us and both policemen are staring at us blatantly. They're not even _trying _to hide their gazes and I feel a spark of irritation. I want to upset the one man's coffee all over him; my fingers twitch and I sit on them to control myself.

_Careful now, Fizzy. You don't want to be arrested. It would look bad on your permanent record and then you'll never get into a good college. _I chuckle to myself. My humor can be dark, if you haven't noticed.

"Wanna see my license?" Fury asks aggressively (I've decided not to call him "Director" because it's not like he's _my _director; I don't belong at SHIELD). The cops raise their eyebrows but they shrug and drive away. Fury lets out a small sigh of relief and then the light turns green and we cross the intersection—

_WHAM. _A police car smashes into Fury's side. I let out a shout and the car spins on an angle, turning down the side street, before—_SMASH_—another police car hits _my _side and then yet another smashes into our back. We're jolted forward and then thrown back and my head slams against my headrest and I let out a groan, rubbing my forehead. What in the seven heavens—?

Several more police cars have zoomed to a stop and now a large, windowless black van has screeched to a stop near the curb. Policemen and men in black combat outfits all leap out of their cars and surround our car, pointing guns at us. "Why are the police shooting at us?" I shout at the same time Fury shouts something at his car—and the car _answers him_. "No D.C. police dispatched in the area," it says.

Okay, first of all, automobiles can speak with us now and tell us information? I know about GPS units but this is even worse. Color me terrified.

Second of all, even I understand the implication of what the car (I suddenly decide to name her Betsy because really, I _can't _say "the car" has spoken to us) has said to us: it detects that no D.C. police have been officially dispatched in this area. Meaning either these police are working unofficially…or more likely they're not police and they're people in disguise.

My gut turns to ice. It's the people who want to re-capture me. Agent Lansky and Agent 13 were right—they _are_ after me again and they've found me.

"Fizzy, GET DOWN!" Fury shouts and I don't stop to argue. I rip my seatbelt off and then dive to the floor of the car as the men outside fire multiple rounds into the car. I can hear gunshots and the sharp _thud thud thud _of bullets slamming into the windows and sides of the car. There's a small alarm clanging in the car and I hear Betsy say something like, "…twenty percent," though I can't be sure with all the noise and then Fury shouts, "Then _reboot_, dammit!"

And then suddenly the bullets stop. I freeze and listen closely and all I hear is silence. Perhaps they've gone aw—

_SLAM_. Something hits our car so hard we actually jerk onto our side and teeter precariously on our two side wheels for a second before slamming back down to the ground. I slammed into the side when this happened and now I'm crouching on the ground, holding the back of my throbbing head. Before I can ask Fury what the hell is going on, it happens again and I actually _do _let out a shout this time when I slam back into the side and then fall to the ground.

I look up, wincing through my throbbing head, and I see Fury pull out a machine gun that's unfolded from a middle section of our car. He gets it ready, aims—and then suddenly begins firing through his window. He shatters his own window and shatters the front windshield as well, rapidly swiveling his arms to hit any man in sight that he can. I clamber up onto my seat as Fury shouts, "Get us out of here!" and then our car begins moving on its _own_. We slam into the car in front of us, then the car behind us, then the car in front of us, until we've cleared a path and we zoom onto the road. I heard bullets hit the back of our car. Twisting around, I can see two police cars and the black van following us down the street, racing to catch up with us.

"What the HELL is going on?" I shout at Fury in a panic.

"I _told _you, SHIELD is compromised," he snaps back and then there's no more time to fight or argue or even leap out of the car because we're slamming into other cars, sometimes driving halfway on the sidewalk, weaving violently through the traffic as the men in the other cars pull up near us and try to shoot into our car. Bullets whiz past my head and I slam myself as far back into my seat as possible, trying not to die from a heart attack. I absolutely did not sign up for this nightmare. People on the sidewalks are screaming and diving out of our way as cars and bullets alike hurtle into the crowds.

Poor people. I hope we haven't actually killed anyone.

Suddenly two cars slam into either side of us and then it's like we're the world's most dangerous sandwich. They slam into us repeatedly, forcing their way in on us. A man leans in on Fury's side with a gun and he and Fury wrestle for the gun. Meanwhile the driver next to me sticks his arm in my window with his shotgun and points it at me. "Not today," I snarl and I grab his arm and I bite it. He lets out a scream.

Yeah, I know, it's a strange move. I didn't exactly plan it. But it works because he lets out a scream and I keep gnawing at his arm and finally I let it go and I twist it and he screams again (this time mingled with some very rude swears) and he wrenches his arm out of the window at the same time that Fury gets a hold of the other man's gun and shoots him in the face. The other man falls out of his car and the police cars slam back into us on either side, boxing us in—I look ahead and my heart jumps out of my chest as I reach we're approaching a median with trees in it—

"We're going to crash!" I shout, _just _as Fury slams on the breaks so hard I slam into the dashboard and feel my lip split. We screech to a grating stop as the two cars on either side of us keep speeding on—they haven't stopped in time—and then I watch in horror and somewhat slight elation (hey, don't blame me, they were trying to _kill _us) as a semi-truck slams into both police cars, obliterating them.

Fury quickly maneuvers us onto a road running perpendicular to us and shouts, "Get us off the grid!" He's not looking at me so I assume he's yelling at Betsy, not me. We race down the road. There's minimal traffic here and when I twist and look behind me, I don't see any cars chasing us or any bullets flying at us. I turn back around, my heart still thundering. It appears we've finally lost them—

Hang on. What's…that? I lean forward and squint, tilting my head. There's a dark figure standing in the road in front of us, not moving, staring straight at us. It's as if we're moving in slow motion, as if all the sounds around us have died down to a muffled roar, because I can clearly see him point something at us. For a moment, nothing happens and we're still racing at the figure fast as can be—

And then suddenly our car blows off the ground. We're catapulted straight into the air and I slam into the dashboard again. My vision goes dark and I feel something rip at my arm and all I can feel is pain as we crash to a stop upside down, all the other windows in the car popping and shattering, spraying glass all over the car. I'm laying on the floor, which is actually the roof of the car, and everything hurts. I blink my eyes open and wipe something wet out of them—my hand comes away smeared with blood—and I whisper, "Fury?" as I notice him stirring next to me.

I look out his window blearily and see something rather alarming—a pair of dark legs clad in black pants and black boots walking towards us through the smoke and the debris. "Fury," I whisper more urgently. "He's coming—"

"I know," mutters Fury and he pulls out a long thin silver stick and clicks a button. A thin blue flame clicks on and I feel heat on my face. It seems to be a powerful thing, despite being so thin and small (a bit like me, in a way!). He quickly moves the flame in a circle on the floor of the car and I watch with fascination as the ground steams and melts as he runs the flame along it—and then a whole circle of the floor of the car and the road falls away into darkness. Before I can tell Fury there's no way in the world I'm going to descend into a dark hole of the unknown, he shoves me in.

There's no time to scream—my breath is knocked out of me as I fall about six or seven feet and then smack into hard concrete. Groaning, I roll over—just in time, too, because Fury lands next to me, yanks me up roughly, and begins racing down the underground tunnel. He's limping but by George, the man can move _quickly_ because it's all I can do to keep up with him. We're like a pair of pathetic, wounded racehorses, galloping away covering in blood and bruises. No one would ever bet on us. _I_ wouldn't even bet on us.

"Where are we going?" I hiss.

"Keep moving," he says in a no-nonsense tone so I follow him as we limp-run down the tunnels. It doesn't seem like we're in the sewers because there's no waste or sewage floating around. Thank god for _that _small stroke of luck, eh? These tunnels are empty and have a lot of wires running through them, with grates that let light from above ground filter in. We rush down the tunnels, turning every now and then, and I have to wonder if Fury actually has a plan for where he's going—or if he's injured his brain during the fight and is now wandering around aimlessly.

"Who was that man?" I pant, hurrying to keep stride.

"I have no idea," he says and we keep moving.

It seems to take hours—or maybe it just feels that way because I'm injured and it's hot down here and I feel limp and sticky with blood and sweat…but no, when we finally climb up from a manhole, the sun is setting and evening is falling. I see a little girl riding her bike down the street freeze when she sees us emerging, covered in grime and blood, from the manhole and I give her a weak wave and wink as she stares at us, open mouthed. We hurry away and I know no one will ever believe her. Poor child.

We're in a semi-residential area now, brick brownstone apartment buildings. I look around as we hurry down the street. This is not the kind of area I've stayed in during the last four years. I usually stick to more metropolitan areas. It's easier to find food and steal things. Places like this, people are more careful about their trash, the locks on their doors… It's a peaceful evening. The sky is a lovely purple color, turning darker and darker, and I can hear the faint sounds of children playing somewhere. It reminds me of kneeling on hot pavement, my hands dusty with colored chalk, annoying Bucky and Steve to please, _pretty please _come draw with me—

No. Don't think about them.

I lock them away like I always do when they rise to my mind and I follow Fury. I can't help but feel like we're somehow going to ruin this peaceful evening. I hope the residents don't mind. He hurries up the steps of one of the apartment buildings and I follow. We race up to the third floor and he approaches an apartment door. I barely have time to see the number—304—before he unlocks it with a hand that seems to be trembling slightly and ushers me inside, quietly shutting and locking the door behind him.

The apartment is dark and shady and cool. An overhead fan spins smoothly. All the blinds are drawn but the light from the setting sun gives the room a shadowy orange glow against the drawn blinds. Fury collapses in an armchair by the wall and says, "Get me a drink of water, will you." Normally I wouldn't follow the orders thrown at me by some random man but one look at him and I can see he's in worse shape than me (despite me having a bad gash on both my forehead and my left upper arm) so I hurry into the little kitchenette, grab a glass from a cabinet, fill it with water from the sink and thrust it at him, sloppily spilling a little (okay, a lot) over the side onto the floor. He doesn't seem to care. He grabs the cup from me, downs the water, and thrusts the cup back at me. I set it back down on the counter by the sink and look down at my hands. They're shaking slightly, though whether I can't tell whether it's from my power or from the shock of what we've just gone through.

"Is this _your _place?" I ask quietly, looking around. It's pretty small and is furnished in a way that could be described as impersonal. I wander around and look at things. It has all the requirements of a living situation—sofas and tables and lamps and some plants which look sort of wilted—but there isn't a personal touch. Nothing that tells me about the person that lives here. Knowing what I know about Nick Fury—which is absolutely nothing—I can definitely imagine him living here.

"No," he says hoarsely, coughing a bit and wiping away some blood that's trickling down his chin. "Belongs to a…friend. You may want to brace yourself."

"For what?" I ask absentmindedly, looking at the books that are stacked in the bookshelf. There are a lot of classics and a lot of nonfiction books on war—World War I, World War II, the Vietnam War, and even some on the current war the country is in. Clearly the person who lives here is interested in war. There are also some strange books, like a ragged copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland _and _Little Women_. I can't tell if a woman or a man lives here.

"You'll see," mutters Nick Fury, "but it may shock you. Watch your temper."

I shoot him a dirty look. "Brace myself for _what_? Tell me."

He shakes his head and said, "Can't explain now. You'll see for yourself soon enough." He looks exhausted.

I want to march over to him and take him by the shoulders and roughly shake him and demand to know what he's talking about. I want to throw a glass of water on him. I want to break something with my powers to demonstrate that I am not to be messed with. But something about his injured face and the exhaustion I can see in the lines of his face makes me pause and reign in my temper, which is something I don't do often. I take a deep breath. _Control yourself, Fizzy. Stay on your toes_.

I'll be ready for this "shock", whatever it is. I won't let anything catch me off my guard again.

I keep looking around the apartment as the sun sets outside. The whole place is clean…almost _too _clean. It gives me a creepy feeling. Who on earth is _this _neat? It's almost like no one lives here—but there's no dust on any of the surfaces and I find an empty glass that looks like it had orange juice in it on the bedside table in the main bedroom, so obviously someone _does _live here. Someone very neat and devoid of personality, apparently. I picture someone sitting on the sofa alone, moving silently through their house like a ghost, not touching anything or making a human mess, and I can't help but feel a bit sad. It's like the person who lives here isn't actually _living_. Where are the photos of their family and friends? Where are their personal belongings? So far all I've found are those books, a very random assortment of DVDs that ranges from a cartoon movie called _Finding Nemo _to war movie called _Saving Private Ryan_, and some very vague memorabilia that doesn't tell me anything. An American flag hangs on the bedroom wall. An old porcelain hairbrush on the dresser that looks like it belongs in some young girl's bedroom from the Victorian era. I'd say the person who lives here is some American war-crazed nut, due to the flag and the books…but I haven't found any weapons in the apartment yet. I _have _found male clothes in the closet, however, so obviously it's a man who lives here. A very sad man who's very preppy.

Ooh, I do love that sky blue button down, though. Very stylish.

I take the opportunity to use the man's bathroom. It's also very neat and clean in there, spotless, in fact. Which, in this case, is a blessing. At least this sad man has good hygiene! There's a toothbrush, toothpaste, some shaving cream and razors in the mirrored side cabinet. I wash my face with some lemon-scented face wash and then run his brush through my hair. Lord, I hope he doesn't have lice—

Okay, let's _not _think about that.

I brace my hands on the edges of the sink top and look at myself in the mirror. I look the same. A few freckles, gray-blue eyes, red lips. My straight auburn-gold hair is matted down and looks limp, despite me brushing it back. The gash on my forehead is still bleeding, as is the one on my arm. I also have a few bright red small cuts on my cheeks and chin and my lip is split. I search in the cabinet under the sink for medical supplies—and aha, there they are. I utter a few ladylike oaths as I clean the wounds with alcohol swabs and then I dab them with petroleum jelly. It's not as good as getting stitched up, but the gashes are clean and covered now. I won't get an infection and die, at the very least.

I leave the bathroom after putting everything back the way it was to find Nick Fury still in the same position I left him in over half an hour ago. He seems to be dozing but I can see through his slitted eyes that he's well awake. I can appreciate that. I too have learned the art of resting while still being awake enough to snap to attention at a moment's notice. You kind of need to have that skill when you're a homeless teenage girl. You never know when someone might try to get the jump on you. I suddenly miss my steel pipe. It wouldn't be much use against a gun but at least I look ten times more psychotic with it (which is the point).

I don't know what to do now that I've rudely and invasively rummaged through the sad man's apartment so I take a seat near Fury. We sit in silence, facing the area where the door is around the corner, me with my arms folded across my chest and my signature "mean" expression. It's not quite a glare but my eyebrows are definitely straight and drawn and my mouth is pressed into a flat line and I definitely don't look happy. At some point, Fury randomly reaches over and turns on the record player next to him. Quite loudly, in fact. I startle when I realize that I _recognize _the song that's playing—it's the song that Bucky taught me how to roller skate to. I don't remember its name or who sang it but it's a loud, lively tune. I think back to how he held my sweaty 12-year-old hands—this was before I saw him in any other way than brother and best friend—and yanked me around the roller rink, bending over in transports of laughter any time I went smacking into a wall or completely fell over.

No more thinking about this. I wince and shake my head. It's too ugly for me to remember. My stomach feels a bit queasy at the memory and I try to focus my vision and mind on a pen sitting on the counter next to Fury. My hands tremble a little and I feel a small warmth spread in them. It's harder to use my powers when I'm not feeling particularly emotional or stressed. I narrow my eyes and focus. A slight pain builds behind my eyes. I focus my entire mind—my entire being—on thinking and wanting the pen to _lift_. I slowly raise my hand up very sneakily so Fury doesn't notice and the pen begins to float upwards into the air—

"Stop that."

I jerk violently and the pen drops. I glare at Fury. "I can do whatever I want."

"Not that, you can't," he says.

I resist the urge to thump him over the head—he's lucky he's already injured—and turn away, crossed my arms and scowling into the darkness. We sit there for another half hour and then suddenly, a man jumps around the corner, brandishing what looks like a baseball bat, scaring the bejeezus out of me. I let out a startled cry and then slam my hand over my mouth, hating myself for being taken off guard. I'm starting to think I'm not as tough as I like to make myself believe I am.

The man is tall with broad shoulder but it's hard to see his face in the dark shadows. I squint at him as he straightens up and he stares at us. Then Fury slowly reaches over and turns on the lamp beside him and golden light throws the man's face into view.

I recall the song from my childhood, one of my favorite songs. The lyrics that I still whisper to myself sometimes, tracing the words over the skin of my inner forearms.

_"When falling feels like flying,_

_ you know you've done well, _

_ when lying feels graceful,_

_ you know you're doing swell."_

Except falling doesn't feel like flying. At all. Falling feels like _falling _and that's what I feel like right now. I can't move. I can't breathe. My throat, my chest, my lungs, my eyes, my mind—they are all on fire. I feel like someone's crushed my windpipe and my stomach's fallen out of my body and I feel like I'm falling, falling, falling again, hearing Arnim Zola's voice in the background, falling again as the dart hits my skin and my vision blurs and the men in suits catch me. There's a rushing noise in my ears like a train's thundering by and all I can think is that I am falling and I am on fire and there is no one here to catch me or dampen the blazes.

Because in front of me is standing Steve Rogers.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Long chapter, folks. Sorry if that's a nuisance to some of you but there's some deep stuff I needed to get out and I felt like it would work better in one chapter rather than splitting it into two. Don't worry, the action starts up again next chapter! As always, I love reviews! Haha.**

* * *

He's standing there, frozen as well, staring at me face as if he's looking at a ghost. Which, I suppose, he is. I'm looking at a ghost as well. I hear Fury mutter, "I told you to brace yourself," from beside me but it's like I'm hearing him from under water. I can only stare at Steve—or the man who has Steve's face. We both stare at each other, mouths open, eyes wide, and the moment seems to stretch on for eternity. I search this man's face—blue eyes, straight nose, short blond hair—and when he takes a step toward me, I leap to my feet and raise my hands in a defensive position, my eyes narrowing. Whoever this man is, he's not Steve Rogers. My Steve died decades ago. Went out in a blaze of glory and honor. This is some trick—some disgusting, sick trick to make me fall in line with SHIELD.

His blue eyes widen with confusion at my defensive position and I bite my lip. With that confused expression, he looks _so much _like my Steve… My head is spinning and I feel like vomiting. In fact, I may just—

I rush for the kitchen sink and puke. It seems as though I have an upset stomach. Either that, or shock just doesn't really sit well in my stomach. I'm alone for a moment, retching, and then he's moving toward me. I don't know what he plans to do—help me? Hold my hair back? Hurt me?—so I whirl away from the sink, wiping my mouth on my sleeve, and snarl, "Don't!" My eyes dart to the door—so far away, behind him. How can I get out of this situation—?

"Victoria," he says hoarsely, his eyes still wide with shock. His face has gone incredibly pale and he whirls and looks at Fury. "What's g—" Then he pauses when he sees Fury's wounds. Fury holds his finger up to his lips again and slowly leans forward, handing him his phone. The man—Steve?—looks down at it and frowns. Then he slowly looks up at Fury and says, "I didn't know you had a wife…"

"There's a lot you don't know about me," says Fury, coughing.

Steve turns to stare at me again and then he turns and looks at Fury and now he's frowning majorly, as if he's extremely pissed off. "And where did this parcel come from?" he asks, his voice tense as a taut wire. I can sense the danger, even from here, and it makes me shrink back in suspicion all the more. My Steve Rogers was never this threatening. This is not Steve. It may look like him, talk like him, but it's not _him_. He's not my best friend. The sweet, brave, funny gentleman who I could always count on to back me up.

"My wife," says Fury. "I need to keep it safe. It's very valuable to me."

I can't help but roll my eyes at the code word. I'm getting a wee bit tired of being referred to as a parcel.

"Who else knows you're here?" asks Steve.

"Just you," says Fury. "My closest friend."

I nearly snort at this and I slowly move around Steve in a wide-arc, moving closer to Fury. Steve's eyes follow my every move and it's making me uncomfortable. He's got a strange, obsessive look in his eyes, like he can't stop staring at me, like I'm the most amazing thing he's ever seen. It's, quite frankly, weird.

Even though, you know, I can't stop staring at him either. But let's ignore that, shall we?

"And are we friends, Nick?" Steve asks. His tone is somewhat scornful. I can't say I blame him. Cuddly, friendly teddy bear Nick Fury is _not_. In fact, I'd be surprised if I found _actual _friends of his. He doesn't really seem one for much socializing with others, unless it's to shout orders at them in his commanding tone.

But then, what do I know? I have the social skills of a stick. A muddy stick.

Fury stands up and walks toward Steve. "I think we a—"

In a series of loud bangs, the glass in the windows of the living room all shatter as three bullets slam into Fury. I throw myself back in alarm as Steve lets out a yell and Fury staggers forward and falls to the floor. I throw myself onto the floor next to him, as does Steve, and we both kneel over him. His eye is glassy and he's taking deep, rattling breaths. His chest is covered in blood. I bite my lip. This does not sound good. He holds out something with his hand—a slim silver thing—and Steve takes it. "Don't…trust…anyone," Fury gasps out.

"What?" Steve says, looking panicked.

Fury grasps the front of Steve's shirt, yanks him a little closer in a jerky movement, and then whispers, "Keep…her…safe."

"Who? _Victoria_?" Steve demands.

I want to shout, "I don't need anyone to keep me safe!" but now is definitely not the time for one of my temper tantrums. I watch in horror as Fury's eye closes halfway and his breathing gets _much _shallower. He's going to die any time now if we don't do something—

"Captain Rogers?" someone shouts from the hall and then a woman emerges into view. She's wearing pink pajamas and she has curly blonde hair and a serious expression. And she's holding a gun in an expert grip.

"Agent 13?" I cry in shock.

"_Agent_?" Steve says, twisting to look at her. "Kate?"

"I work for SHIELD, Captain Rogers," Agent 13 says. "I've been assigned to protect you."

"On whose orders?" demands Steve.

Agent 13 kneels by Fury. "His," she says. She pressed her hands gently to his chest for a moment and then she whips out a black walkie-talkie type of device and barks into it, "Foxtrot is down! I repeat, Foxtrot is down! We need an ambulance on the scene _now_!"

What happens next happens so quickly that it's impossible for anyone to react in time to stop it.

Before anyone can say anything else, something crashes into my from behind and I hear Steve and Agent 13 letting out yells of shock. As for _me_, it's all I can do to blink through the pain that's radiating down my side and back and get my bearings—before I realize I've been picked up and someone is _running out the door with me_. They're holding me under their arm like I'm a football and as I twist and writhe in their grip, I see that the arm that's holding me is hard and silver—it's a metal arm. I twist myself, struggling furiously, and I see that a man is holding me but I can't even see what he looks like. He's wearing a black face mask that covers his entire face except for his eyes, which have dark soot smeared all around them so I can barely see _those _either. He has shoulder length brown hair and he's running so quickly it yanks my breath away. He skids around a corner and throws himself up the stairs. My head and arm are banging and twisting in painful ways, since he's holding me in such a strange and awkward way, and my vision is spinning as I flop like a rag doll in his vice like grip. My side where his silver arm is clamped onto tightly is beginning to scream in pain.

My head bangs against a railing as he races furiously up the stairs and I try to furiously bite him or kick him. "PUT ME DOWN!" I manage to scream before he slams my head—accidentally? On purpose?—into a railing again and stars explode in front of my eyes. He's still clanging up the steps and I can hear the sound of someone in pursuit. It sounds like Steve, from the sound of the male voice yelling behind us. I hear crashing noises as well, as if he's slamming into walls or something.

The man holding me bursts onto the roof and the warm night air hits my face. He's racing to the edge of the roof so I twist up as fast as I can in this terribly awkward position and I do something which later embarrasses me a bit because it's so weird but at the moment, it's all I can think of. I sink my teeth into his side. Now, he's wearing combat gear that's very thick but it appears I've found a spot that's only covered by regular thin fabric and I chomp down as hard as I can, shaking my head back and forth quickly to try and perhaps rip his skin off.

First the cop, now him. It appears I've turned into a raptor over the years.

I don't rip his skin but I do apparently get in a decent bite because he lets out a painful hiss and his arm jerks a little and he drops me. I hit the ground _hard _and roll, smacking my face into the cement as I roll far away. I land on my side and blink stars out of my eyes again as I look at the world through a disoriented, sideways lens. Steve bursts onto the roof and chucks a shield at the man. The shield spins so quickly that by all the laws of physics, it should slam into my assailant and knock him clear off the roof. But he _catches it_ in his metal hand—he doesn't even stagger back one inch! I'd be impressed if I weren't so terrified—and he holds it for a moment before hurling it back at Steve. It slams into Steve's stomach and Steve slides back a step before looking up at the man in shock. The man, in turn, stares at me with a shadowed gaze for a moment and I scramble up to my feet and stagger back as quickly as I can, putting as much distance between us as I possibly can.

And then, when I blink, he's gone.

Steve runs over to the edge of the building and peers over at the ground. Then he turns back and calls to me, "He's vanished."

I stare at Steve and swallow as he walks toward me. It's so surreal. I remember Steve being made this big and muscular on the last day I saw him—but I never really got the chance to get _used _to seeing him look like this. So even though seeing him walk towards me looks familiar on one hand, it looks utterly foreign on the other, which is why I throw my hands up and say, "_Don't _come near me!"

"Victoria, it's _me_," he says, looking shocked. "It's me, Steve. Don't you remember me? I don't know how you—how you—oh, hell, _Fury_!" He takes off running, shouting over his shoulder, "Come on!" and I have no choice but to follow.

Well, I mean, I suppose I could stay on the rooftop. I'm used to living on rooftops. But Steve would just come get me. So I race down after him. We can hear ambulance sirens in the distance and we arrive downstairs just in time to see rescue services hustling Fury down the stairs and out of the apartment building on a white stretcher. His eyes are closed, his shirt has been cut off, and a medic is holding a white cloth to his gunshot wounds. All the medics are frantically shouting things to each other, shouting orders and saying all sorts of medical things that make no sense to me. They load Fury into the back and I see Agent 13 slip into the back with him to ride along. The doors are slammed shut and then the ambulance is racing down the road, cutting through the silent night with its piercing wail and flashing lights.

"Come on," says Steve, beckoning to me. "We'll—we'll talk about all this later. Right now we have to go see if Fury is okay."

I stare at him and my mind is racing furiously. Fury is gone and he's likely going to die. It's harsh, but it's the truth. The world is dirty and rotten and good things don't happen to good people. Agent 13 is gone. Agents Lansky, Gutierrez, Romanoff, Kujowski—no one who knows me is here. I can escape. I should back away from him and flee into the night. Nick Fury is the director of SHIELD. Him getting shot and dying should cause major waves in SHIELD. No one will even remember me until it's too late. I can be long gone by then. And this time I'll go far. I'm tougher than I was four years ago. I can run far this time, go to Asia or Africa and hide somewhere they'll _never _find me.

I begin backing away…but find that I can't make myself turn away from Steve's face. I can't stop staring at him, my mouth slightly open. He's not the Steve I remember but he still has Steve's _face_—and it's been so, so long since I've seen that face…I can't make myself turn away from his face…

"Victoria, we have to _go_," he says. He reaches for my arm and I jerk out of his grasp as if his grip is white-hot metal.

"Don't touch me," I hiss through my teeth.

He looks like I've slapped him for a moment and then he says, "Alright, fine, I won't—but follow me." His voice has taken on a commanding tone that Steve Rogers _never _had and I can't help but feel like this is just yet another part of this man that makes him so unrecognizable to me.

"Fine," I snap and he turns away, satisfied, and heads out into the night. I follow him and see him bring a motorcycle out from around the side and straddle it. He puts the seat behind him and I gingerly climb up behind him. He's so tall that I can't see _anything _while sitting behind him. I don't want to wrap my arms around him but as soon as he roars from the curb, I almost fall backwards off the motorcycle at the sudden speed and I have no option but to throw my arms around his waist and bury my face in his back as he breaks several speed limits and the wind rushes into my face, making my eyes burn and tear up.

This is one of those moments that _seems _like it belongs in some romantic-comedy film—except there's no romance. There's no comedy. All I feel is confusion and fear and panic. I can feel the power in me flowing and I grit my teeth and scrunch my eyes together to try and keep a lid on it.

_Keep it together, Fizzy, you don't want to accidentally rip a tree out by its roots or something! _

Steve doesn't know about my powers. Steve can never know about my powers. Not then—and not now. I still remember the fear I felt back then, all the nightmares I had of Steve and Bucky backing away from me in horror if they ever found out what I could do…

I guess Steve is exempt from laws because we break several red lights and speed limit laws trying to get to the hospital in time but no cop tries to stop us. Thank god. After the fiasco from earlier, I'm feeling a bit _sour _towards cops in general, if you know what I mean. I may just make biting them a habit from now on. We brake to a speedy stop at the hospital entrance, skidding slightly, and then we hurry inside. I have to practically jog to keep up with Steve's large stride and even though I know I should be worried about Fury, I can't help but look at the back of Steve's blond head and try to find the boy who was my best friend in him. It's not that I've never seen a larger Steve Rogers; I saw him after his transformation. But he _died_. The whole world got the news of his death. How is he here _now_? The same way as me? Somehow I have trouble believing that he'd be as easy to capture as I was, especially considering his size and the fact that they basically turned him into a super-soldier (if the newspapers back then could be believed).

We stride up to the entrance desk in the main waiting area and Steve begins speaking with the lady sitting at the desk, asking her where Fury's been taken. She seems reluctant to tell him at first, probably because he isn't family, but then she looks at him—I mean _really_ looks at him—and her eyes widen and her poorly-lip-lined (true crime, lip liner) mouth falls open. It's obvious that she recognizes Steve all of a sudden. She's stammering and blushing and it's honestly super embarrassing to watch and she finally tells him on what floor and unit Fury can be found, which is actually probably illegal or something.

I see a man slumped in a chair holding a cup of coffee and suddenly my stomach growls. I haven't eaten in hours. And yes, food is one of those things that is always on my mind. What can I say, I seem to burn calories faster than most people. When I'm hungry, my mind becomes a one-track thing and I head off in a random direction in the search of food when Steve calls behind me, "Victoria, where are you _going_?"

"To find food," I toss over my shoulder.

"Wait!" he says. "You can't just run off."

I stop and sigh. Fold my arms and stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then—and I don't want to, but I realize I must—I turn and stare at him. Keep my gaze cold while looking at this non-Steve Steve. "I won't run off," I say He looks extremely dubious and I sigh. "I won't," I promise, and I'm telling the truth. Now that I'm here, I may as well check up on Fury before slipping away. The man _did _save my life—I think.

"Fine," he says. "Meet me up on the unit. If you're not there in fifteen minutes, I'm coming after you."

_I'd like to see you try. _But I bite back my angry retort, give him a mocking smile, turn and stalk away. I can't help the strange, bitter frown that slides across my face. This is all so confusing and wrong. Why is Steve…or someone who looks like the super-sized Captain America version of him…_here_, in the now? Didn't he die? Yes, he did. He did die.

…Right?

I press the heels of my hand to my throbbing temples and then decide that food will be a good solution. Food, I can drown my sorrows in. I follow the smell of disgusting cafeteria food down a few hallways until I find the hospital cafeteria, where a few people are sitting at tables. It's not too crowded. Random summer night. Some people look depressed, a few look happy, but everyone looks tired.

I have no money but that's not a problem. I slip right through the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen and no one pays me any attention. I've found that when you _act_ like you belong, people tend to accept it. It's just easier for them.

Also, I'm wearing SHIELD clothes that look like scrubs. I probably look like a student nurse or something.

I snag a banana, a croissant, and grab a cup of steaming coffee from the dispenser, snapping a top on it—and then, in a rare moment of consideration (go me), I grab a cup of coffee for Steve two. My hands are too full now so I consider floating the coffee cups, smile to myself, then mentally smack myself upside the head for being an idiot, and find one of those cardboard drink containers. Waltz right out the swinging doors and no one's said a word to me. Success.

Fury is apparently on the sixth floor, unit 62, so I head up there, mouth salivating at the thought of food. I can't wait so I awkwardly manage to open the banana, prop it in the crook of my arm, and scarf it down, ignoring the disgusted looks the lady next to me is giving me. I'm a homeless kid, woman, shut your trap. Ignoring the urge to stuff the banana peel down her hideous shirt, I toss it in a garbage can on the sixth floor and hurry down the hall, searching left and right for Steve—

"Are you Victoria Marsden?" I look to my left to see a male nurse with short spiky brunette hair.

"Uh…yes?" I say slowly, wondering if this is some sort of trap.

But all he does is say, "Mr. Rogers told us a young girl would be up in a few minutes, he told us to show you where he's waiting. It's a private ward, you can't access it from the main unit."

"Oh, okay, thanks," I say. He leads me through two sets of doors off the main unit and leads me up to door that says E-U62. Not sure what that means. Before I go in, he gently touches my shoulder and apologetically says, "Sorry, we don't allow food in there."

"But—but—" But I can tell from the look in his eyes that he absolutely _will not _budge on this, that he will lay his life down on the line for this, so I mournfully say, "Fine," and hand him the coffee tray and the croissant. He smiles apologetically and then whisks out of sight, taking my beloved coffee with him. Sorry Steve. Looks like no food for you.

I push through the door and find Steve standing at a window looking into another room, right next to…

"Agent Romanoff," I say, standing right next to her.

"Fizzy," she says, not looking at me. Her gaze is locked on Fury, who is laying on an operating table in the other room, shirtless. Surgeons swarm around him wearing white masks and digging into him with scalpels and blades and I can't help but shudder at how grotesque it all is.

"_Fizzy_?" asks Steve. "What?"

"I don't know," murmurs Agent Romanoff.

I ignore them, though my cheeks are coloring. I'm aware my nickname is stupid and weird. The thing is—it wasn't really my picking. And once it stuck…it stuck. I allowed it because I didn't want my real name used and I didn't know what else to use. And four years later…I don't have the energy to switch to a new nickname. So Fizzy it is, as bad a nickname as it is. It's so bad that I'm almost fond of it, the way you can become fond of ugly clothing or lima beans.

(I'm just kidding about that last part, no one can become fond of lima beans.)

We watch in silence as the surgeons work frantically over Fury and I hear Agent Romanoff murmur, "Come on, Nick, don't do this to me," and I can't help but look away from her. I feel embarrassed for some reason, as if I've intruded on something private. She's not crying but there's something in her tone…she clearly cares about Nick Fury. I dart her a glance, wondering if it's something romantic? But no…the expression on her face doesn't seem like one someone would have their romantic partner were dying. She seems more like…

A little girl who's losing her father.

It feels like a cold hand clenches my heart for a moment because I know what that feels like. I lick my dry lips and force the pain and memories away and focus back on Fury. Even though I barely know the man, I find myself subconsciously rooting for him to win this fight anyway. _Come on, Director Fury. I know you're tougher than this. Live to scowl on another day. _

But I see the heart rate on the machine next to the operating table flatline and suddenly the surgeons are pressing paddles to Fury's chest. His body jerks once…twice…three times… I don't even notice it but I'm clenching my fists so tightly that my nails have dug into my palms and drawn blood and a sheen of sweat covers my forehead. _Come on, Fury, don't die. _I don't know him well but I can sense that he's not a bad man. Besides, the psycho who shot him is the same who tried to abduct me and I don't want that man to win.

But he does win. One surgeon puts down his scalpel and pulls off his mask. And then other surgeons follow suit and I know Fury's lost the fight. No surgeon abandons his patient…unless his patient has abandoned him first. It's over. The mystery shooter has won.

Agent Romanoff swears under her breath and suddenly storms from the room, wrenching the door open and slamming it shut so hard the walls shake. I glance over at Steve. He's standing as still as a statue, staring into the room where Fury's body lays, alone now. I bite my lip and walk past him out the door, following Agent Romanoff. She's leaning against the wall, her arms behind her back, and she's staring at the wall opposite her with a vacant expression. I notice that she's wearing jeans, boots, and a brown hoodie. Normal human clothes. I'm not sure why this surprises me. Obviously special agents wear human clothes, it's not like they walk around in all-black all the time (though how cool would that be if they did? It could be the new fashion trend—"combat chic"), but something about Agent Romanoff in normal clothes is strange. She's such an ice queen that it's hard to imagine that she has a normal human life.

Steve exits the room and waits in the hall with us. He leans against the opposite wall and I stand there, arms crossed, scowl on my face as usual, ignoring everything. I'm very aware of Steve staring at me like a creeper. Okay, fine, his gaze isn't _creepy_, but it's unnerving. After four years of being under the radar and hiding in the shadows, I am not used to this. Victoria Marsden was a wallflower. Even Fizzy the Strange Streetkid isn't seen much in public. Whoever I am, Victoria, Fizzy…I've never been stared at much. And being stared at your supposed-to-be-dead-for-like-decades-best-friend is even _more _weird. If you've never had it happen to you, count yourself lucky.

The surgeons exit into the hall from another room and Agent Romanoff springs up. "I want to see him," she says loudly, her voice cold.

"We're moving him to the morgue," says the surgeon. "You can see him there."

I stare at the surgeon, a bit disturbed. The morgue? That's harsh. Terrible bedside manner. Though I suppose there's no bedside here and Agent Romanoff isn't family, so maybe this surgeon doesn't feel the need to be tactful or polite. Or maybe he just sucks.

We go down to the main floor, where the morgue is. Such an ugly, scary word. I fight the urge to shiver. I'm not a coward, anyone can attest to that, but something about death is so final and the word "morgue" is so weird. Like a place where you can stockpile death.

Okay, I need to stop being so creepy.

A passing nurse lets Agent Romanoff, Steve, and I into the room. I see men in black at the end of the hall before ducking into the room and suddenly my lungs feel a little tighter. How is SHIELD here already? Does this mean I won't get a chance to run away after this? Should I make my break for it now? I'm _almost _poised to turn and run—but then I see Fury's body on the gurney in the room and I can't make myself do it. It would be a selfish and dramatic move, especially when Agent Romanoff is hurting.

I lean against the wall next to Steve, scooting a foot away from him, and I pretend that I don't notice him stiffening in response to me standing far away from him. I watch as Agent Romanoff stands near Fury's body. I can only see her back. She's just standing there. No loud sobs. No shaking shoulders. No movement at all. Just the _tiniest _of sniffs that I'm not sure if I imagined or not.

"Natasha," Steve finally says.

She touches Fury's face—and then she turns and whirls, stalking out of the room so quickly it's all I can do to keep up. I step into the hall as does Steve and Steve calls again, "Natasha!"

She whirls on Steve and her face is full of anger. Oh dear. An angry Agent Romanoff does not sound fun. I take a step back while she demands, "Why was Fury in your apartment when he was shot?"

"I have no idea," says Steve and even though I'm not looking at him, I hear his voice get a little deeper and I can't help but bite my lip in shock. This means he's lying. I know this—I know this because I knew Steve. So this Steve has the same habit when he lies…does this mean he's really the same…?

I look up just as Agent Romanoff scoffs, "You're a terrible liar," her eyes glittering with anger, cheeks pink with emotion.

"Captain Rogers," calls an agent with tan skin and dark hair from down the hall. "SHIELD wants you back at headquarters."

"Not tonight, Rumlow," says Steve.

"But Cap—"

"Not _tonight_," says Steve and his voice rings with authority.

The agent with the dark hair grimaces in a _What can I do? _sort of way and turns around, muttering to the men standing next to him. Steve turns back to Agent Romanoff but she gives him one last scornful look before turning and storming down the hall. I can't help it—I look at Steve with raised eyebrows. Another similarity: this Steve has the same ability to alienate females as the Steve I knew. He's not looking at me however (wow, I know—amazing, right?) and is instead looking at the thin, tiny silver device in his fingers. I squint at it for a moment, trying to place what it is—and then it hits me. A flash drive. One of those things used to back up files on a computer.

Terrifying, isn't it, what a device the size of a stick of a gum can hold?

And then, weirdly enough, it's like Steve's read my mind because he suddenly edges behind the vending machine right next to us, scraping it forward slightly. My eyes widen and I watch in fascination and shock as he pops the back of the vending machine off, sticks the flash drive into a row with other packs of gum, pops the back of the vending machine back on, and slides it back into place. Thirty seconds. No one else has noticed.

Unbelievable.

He looks at me now. "Come on, Victoria. Let's go back to…my home."

"Uh, no thank you," I say. I begin edging down the hall. "I'm going to leave now."

Steve frowns at me. "What? Don't be stupid. I have _no _idea how you're here—in the twenty-first century. But I'm not going to let you out of my sight."

My vision goes red and I feel my hands throb with energy. I want to throttle him. "_Let_ me out of your sight?" I ask, my voice dangerous.

He sighs. "Sorry, that was worded poorly. I didn't mean… I just… Why don't you want to talk to me? Did you know about me this whole time?"

"No," I say shortly. I don't say the rest. I don't tell him how I've mourned him this whole time. How the name "Captain America" has burned me again and again and again. How the sight of red, white, and blue has killed me inside. I don't tell him these things mostly because I don't know how to and partly because I'm not sentimental like that.

"Well, Fury told me to watch over you," he says in a determined voice. "You're of some importance to SHIELD—or you're in danger. So even if I didn't know you, I wouldn't let you out of my sight. It was his dying wish. I'm not going to dishonor it. Just come back to my place with me. I promise I won't ask you anything you don't want to answer. I'm not holding you captive. I'm just trying to keep you safe."

Not holding me captive. Just keeping me safe. This seems to be the general motto of everyone around me lately and yet they're not doing a very good job are they? One day and I've already been attacked twice. I let out a harsh laugh which Steve winces at but then I fold my arms, nod, and say, "Fine. I'll come back with you." I don't know why I'm saying yes.

* * *

Steve's apartment is still a mess. One whole window is shot through, some furniture is knocked over, and shattered glass lays everywhere. Steve cleans up the glass and I don't help. Mean of me, I know. But I'm not totally useless. I say to Steve, "Hand me some duck tape."

"Actually, it's called duct—"

"Hand me the _duck _tape," I say snarkily and he tosses me a roll after digging it out of some counter. Then I proceed to tape the ever-living hell out of that open window. When I'm done I doubt even the mystery shooter could get through it again. In fact, he'd probably just stick to it like a fly in a spider's web. The idea gives me satisfaction and I hope he tries to launch himself in here again. I'd love to find him stuck to the tape tomorrow morning. When I'm done I sit on a couch and think to myself for a moment. I'm so lost in thought that I don't even notice when Steve sits across from me and gently says, "Victoria."

"Fizzy."

"I—I can't say that name," he says. "Who's _Fizzy_?"

I roll my eyes. "Never mind. Forget it. Call me Victoria." This whole nickname thing has been getting really annoying ever since people have started using my real name again. It still feels weird, to be called Victoria again. Who was the last _real _person to call me Victoria? Steve. Decades ago.

"Tell me how you're here," he says.

"Tell me how _you're _here," I reply. I look into his blue eyes and I'm suddenly afraid of what he's going to say. I'm afraid he's going to say that he's been held captive and beaten like I have. Steve Rogers was too good for that fate. I never wanted that for my friend.

"I froze myself," he says.

Okay—that was the one thing I didn't expect him to say. "Beg pardon?" I ask.

He coughs. "I…I was manning an airplane. There was no turning back. It's…it's hard to explain my decision now. But I chose to crash and freeze myself. I knew it would happen. Well—actually, I didn't. I thought I'd freeze to death and _die_. But I guess the super-soldier serum saved my life essence and three years ago they found me. Thawed me. And I was back in the world. Back to being Captain America. Except the year was 2011 and everyone I knew was dead. Except…except for Agent Carter."

"Agent Carter is alive?" I ask, sucking in a sharp breath.

"Yes. She's old and fragile," he says, "but alive and sharp as ever." A fond smile spreads across his face and I feel a burning sensation in my chest. Steve was sweet on Agent Carter. I'd seen it the moment I'd met her, though I'd only met her once. And he _still _loves her. It's sweet…but mostly horribly sad. Sort of like how I'd loved Bucky and now I'll never see him again.

"And then I joined SHIELD," he says. "That's really all there is. My story isn't that interesting. But how did you…?"

I can't tell this story. I can't. I can't I can't I can't. If I do, I'll have to explain _why _they took me, whoever they were. I'll have to explain about my powers. About the fact that I'm a freak. And I can't do that. I've just discovered my best friend didn't die and he's still alive and I'm scared of him and who he is and I don't feel like I know him anymore but I can't drive him away any further him by showing him who I truly am.

I inspect my nails as if I'm a Valley girl and they hold the answers to all of life's greatest mysteries. "I don't know."

"Victoria, come on," he says. "You must know something. How did you vanish from the 1940's and end up in 2014? It didn't happen in the blink of an eye."

I shrug. "I truly don't know." I'm usually a pretty good liar but something about lying to Steve's honest face—God, he's _still _so honest, even when he's like 90 years old, how weird is that?—makes me voice crack embarrassingly and I wince. It's so obvious that I'm lying.

"It's so obvious that you're lying," he says, "and I want to know why. This makes no sense. If you're alive—if you're alive—"

"Bucky's not alive," I say quietly, "if that's what you're getting at."

A terrible silence falls between us and I can almost see a phantom Bucky smiling cockily at both of us, collapsing on the sofa between us, hands in his pockets and lazy, sweet smile on his face. Shining eyes. And then he vanishes like smoke when Steve quietly says, "I know. I saw him fall. That's not what I meant. I just meant…I just meant if you're alive, it means…it means I'm not…"

Alone.

We're not alone anymore. Even if things don't feel easy between us, we still share a common life experience now. Being transported from one century to the next without aging has got to have some sort of bonding factor.

I shrug. "I don't know what to tell you."

His eyes narrow a little bit. "Victoria, you can't keep this a secret."

My armpits begin to sweat a little bit, as does the back of my neck, and I jump to my feet and begin pacing to try and distract his attention and get him off my back. "Listen," I say. "You said you weren't going to ask me anything I didn't want to—"

"I didn't mean not telling me _how you got here_!" He leaps to his feet and I'm sorry, but the sight is physically imposing, okay? He towers over me and I lose my cool, skittering back a few steps and angrily saying, "Hey, stay back, alright?"

"Victoria, what is _wrong _with you?" he cries, sounding frustrated. "I'm not going to hurt you, for God's sake, why do you keep acting like I am?" He takes two steps towards me and I can't help it—I shove my hands outwards and shout, "I SAID STAY AWAY!" and my anger and panic blasts outwards from me like a tsunami and he actually blows back a few feet, staggering back and falling over onto the sofa. I freeze and stare at him in horror. What have I done? I've exposed myself. I've—

My stomach turns and I turn and fly into his bedroom, slamming and locking the door, sliding down the door. My legs splay out on the floor and I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, letting out a pained groan. My heart is pounding, my face feels hot and that's weird, because my blood feels ice cold. And then my eyes are burning and stinging. I wipe my tears away, muttering, "Don't be stupid," but they keep coming, faster and faster. I'm an idiot. I'll never be able to control my powers and I've just exposed myself. I can't look at Steve now. He'll be so disgusted—

"Victoria." His voice comes from right outside the door. "Let me in. We can talk about this."

"No," I whisper even though I know he can't hear me. I'm a mess. He's silent for a long—so long that I begin to worry that he's gone off to find a hammer and break the door down. Though, let's be honest, Captain America doesn't really need a _hammer _to break down a door, does he? He has biceps.

Finally he says, "Okay," and I hear him slide down the door on the other side. He's sitting down on the other side of the door. "I'll wait for you. I've waited decades, I think I can wait a little longer for answers. Take your time."

Oh god. He's being _sweet_. He's being Steve Rogers. My waterworks turn on again and I spend an hour alternating between crying, and wiping my tears and scolding myself for being an idiot and a crybaby. This is not how tough people act. This is not how Fizzy from the streets acts. Fizzy from the streets takes bloodstained iron pipes and bashes in peoples' skulls. But how can I be Fizzy when he keeps calling me Victoria like no time has passed and we're going to walk to the corner store to prank the grumpy old man who thinks all teenagers are demons from hell?

_For god's sake, Fizzy, GET IT TOGETHER! _I shout at myself in my mind. I wipe my tears and get up to look at myself in the mirror. Gross. I look terrible. My nose is red and my eyes are watery and red. I look even worse than usual. I brush my hair back using the antique brush on the dresser—which…I suppose is no longer an antique, is it? It's probably from our time. Maybe it's Agent Peggy Carter's. Women, in those days, sometimes gave boys tokens of their affections. We called them "promises." Though a hairbrush would be a strange promise, even by my old-fashioned standards.

I take a deep breath and walk to the door. I can do this. I am stronger than this. I'm not weak anymore. I've survived so much. I can do this. I fling the door open and Steve falls into the room. He clearly did not anticipate this. He scrambles to his feet and takes a long look at me. He knows I've been crying. (I mean, I wasn't exactly quiet about it.) "You don't have to—" he starts, looking uncertain, but I hold up a hand.

"I'll tell you," I say. My gut clenches painfully. There's no point hiding it now. "Uh, you may want to take a seat for this." I point to the bed and Steve sits. I take a deep breath and dive in, avoiding his eyes at certain parts because I don't want to see what's on is face.

When I'm done, an hour's passed. I slowly peek up at Steve. His mouth is hanging open slightly and he looks torn between anger and shock. "I…you mean to tell me you've been like this since we were _kids_?" he demands. "And you never _told _us?"

"Would you tell?" I ask.

He pauses. "Good point. But—no! Wait! What am I saying? _Not _a good point! Yes, I would have told you and Bucky! Didn't you trust us?"

"Of course I did!" I say heatedly. "But—but this was so beyond normal, St-Steve!" My tongue still slips on his name. I'm not used to saying it and it still feels…wrong. This man, he seems like Steve, sort of…but he's too big. Too commanding. Too much anger in him. Not the Steve I remember.

Then again, I'm different too. We've both changed. I'm not sure if we can ever be close like we once were.

"Bucky and I would never have abandoned you," he says quietly.

My breath catches in my throat at the sound of Bucky's name. have no idea what happened to my two best friends after they both went off to war. I know the beginnings and I know the endings—or what I _thought _were the endings. But I need the middle filled in. I need to know what happened to Bucky. It's like scratching at a wound—it's stupid and painful and it won't help me heal. But I need to do it. Bucky…Bucky is the wound and I'm going to make Steve the salt.

"Tell me what happened," I say softly. "During the war."

Now it's Steve turn. I lean against the door, arms crossed, staring down at my feet as he tells his story. I'm frozen the whole time he tells me about it. About sneaking off and going to save the 107th. Finding Bucky. Saving him. Leading them all back to camp. Then—in typical Steve fashion—deciding to be the good hero again and put an end to the Nazi rogue science division. Bucky falling off the train.

I close my eyes. I can only too clearly picture his hands slip—

You know what? I won't do this. I won't think about this. Denial is a lovely place to live in, a place I'm content to live in.

When Steve is done, we both stand silently and then Steve slowly asks to know how SHIELD found me. I quickly relay the past 24 hours to him, skipping a few choice embarrassing moments (like getting tackled by an agent in front of basically all of SHIELD). I relay everything up until when Fury brought us to Steve's apartment.

Speaking of which, it is totally depressing how _Steve Rogers _is the sad man who lives here. I sort of think about telling him to get a life, but I'm not exactly one to talk.

"So now we know they're after you," says Steve. "Whoever they are."

"Then they'll be sorry they're coming after me," I say grimly. Steve gives me a disbelieving look, probably at the fact that I'm very small and sort of look like I'd be pounded in a fight, and I politely say, "I can be sort of psycho sometimes."

"I noticed," he says.

"Wow, being frozen for decades has made you less obtuse," I say sarcastically, referring to the fact that Steve used to regularly get his butt kicked for not being able to take a hint (meaning not being able to shut up when a bully gave him one chance to shut up and get lost). He looks at me and I feel bad for a moment. Perhaps the moment wasn't right my mean humor. But then he suddenly chuckles and says, "I haven't heard you ragging on me for being dense in ages. I've missed that."

"Uh...thanks," I say self-consciously. Who knew being mean would get such a reaction? I should be mean more often. If that's possible for me, considering I'm mean all the time.

"I have to keep you safe," he says suddenly, determinedly. He's slipped into Captain America mode, all heroic and serious. The joking moment is over. "That man who blew up your car—do you think he was the same as the mystery shooter?"

I cast my mind and think back to the moment I saw the figure on the road. I didn't notice much all about him…except he wore all black… "Could be," I say finally. "Not sure."

"So we have a mystery man on the road," says Steve. "A mystery shooter who's taken out Fury." His blue eyes turn icy at the mention of Fury's death. "And tried to kidnap you. I think it's reasonable to assume that the group after you sent that man to retrieve you. Fury was in the way so he killed him to get at you."

"This can't be all about me," I say. "Fury gave you a flash drive. Something is on that. Which, by the way, why did you hide it in a _vending machine_?"

Steve shrugs. "Didn't want to bring it back here. I thought the shooter might come back and I didn't want him to get the information. Fury died for it."

I wait for Steve to grasp the obvious. He stares at me and I stare back at him. Finally I sigh in exasperation. Has being frozen in ice also frozen his brain cells? "Steve," I say with the air of someone speaking to a stubborn three-year-old who just refuses to eat his peas, dammit. "What if someone wants gum and takes the flash drive?"

"I'm going back tomorrow to get it," says Steve. "I put it at the very back. I don't think there'll be a mad rush for spearmint gum in the next eight hours."

Not a safe assumption, in my opinion. Spearmint gum is totally delicious. I'd buy several packs in one go if I had the money to waste on that.

I take a deep breath and look at Steve. He stares back at me. I search his face for my best friend and I find parts—bits—but the barrier hasn't been broken down. His face has shadows in it and I'm sure I have darker things shining in my face. He's still not Steve Rogers to me. I've told him my story…but I'm not ready to talk with him. Not about anything else. He feels foreign and I don't know how to approach that. I can sense the same wariness from him. I'm rougher around the edges. I'm not the same Victoria. I'm Fizzy intertwined and he hasn't had time to get to know this person. We're like two wounded animals locked in a cage, extremely wary of each other.

But still. He's accepted my powers and he hasn't given me a look of horror or disgust. Shock and surprise, yes. Some clear discomfort, yes, but I can handle that. But not the backing away while calling me names that always haunted my nightmares back in the days. And I can only be relieved and thankful for that. But I'm not going to tell him that. It's too mushy-gushy and my emotional moment is over. Tough me is back. And she's here to stay.

_No more breaking down_, I promise myself.

"Alright," I say. "Find me a place to sleep. We need to get up early in the morning if we need that flash drive." All my plans of running away have vanished. I'll still scarper if I need to but now I'm deadly curious about what's on that flash drive. There's a bigger picture here and a strange, desperate part of me is itching to know what it is.

I've mentioned hating being left in the dark, right? And liking being a know-it-all smarty-pants? Yeah.


	6. Chapter 6

I don't sleep well. Part of it probably has to do with the fact that I'm afraid that the mystery shooter will come back for me. But it probably more has to do with the fact that my supposed-to-be-long-dead-now-superhero best friend is sleeping in close proximity to me. It's an unnerving feeling. Steve tries to insist on me taking his bedroom (he's still a gentleman, I see) but I vehemently refuse. No thank you. That's crossing way too many weird boundaries I am not willing to cross. He only stops when I threaten to run away during the night if he keeps insisting. I take the couch and to someone who's slept on rooftops and in Dumpsters (it was _twice_, okay? Garbage bags can be cushy) before, a little sofa is just fine.

But sleep doesn't come well. It comes in little stretches and slices—and then my eyes open and I toss and turn and doze off again… Repeat the cycle. Acquire dark shadows under eyes. Fabulous.

Steve pads into the family room at four a.m. I'm a light sleeper and I'm already half-awake so my eyes snap open and I silently sit up. I hear him jump and say, "Victoria! I didn't know you were—"

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"Running," he says. "Want to come?"

Uh, no. I get enough physical activity running from cops and store keepers. I don't need to run in my spare time as well. But all I say is, "No thanks."

He hesitates before leaving and I roll my eyes. "Steve. I'm not going to run away. If I wanted to run away, I'd have done it by now. Chill out."

He mutters something under his breath and leaves, giving me a warning glance that says _You'd BETTER not run. _I get up, stretch, and start getting ready. Take a hot shower (a girl can get used to this hygiene thing) and since Steve has no clothes that'll fit me, I slip on my SHIELD clothes again. I inspect myself critically in the mirror. They're not so dirty…right?

Okay, they're disgusting. But I have no other options.

I brush my hair back from my face, brush my teeth using a spare brush Steve's set out (how considerate) and then head into his kitchen. I yank open the fridge—to find a jar of peanut butter, a carton of eggs, a limp-looking tomato, and orange juice. That's _it_? Why is his fridge so empty? Why does he insist on his entire residence looking like a caricature of an extremely sad, lonely bachelor? This is honestly making me emotional because it's so depressing. Thankfully I find a loaf of bread on the counter so I get to work making eggs. I haven't cooked like this, in a kitchen, in years, but the knowledge has stayed with me. Funny, innit?

Steve comes back in just as I'm setting a plate for him on the table. I've already eaten so I take pointed glances at the clock on the wall while he eats, letting out heavy sighs to send the hint. Then he's done. He holds up a finger and disappears off to his room. I wait, leaning against the wall, staring at the ground. He reappears…in full Captain America regalia. I'm not quite sure why. I can't help but stare. The uniform is darker, sleeker, more subdued. More grim. Sort of like this century. He eyes my ragged clothes but doesn't say anything. I'm thankful for this. A girl really does not need these kinds of things pointed out to her.

We need to get the flash drive but _first _he needs to stop by at SHIELD. He's been summoned. He can't put it off any longer, having ignored them last night. He obeys traffic laws this time so the ride to the Triskelion takes about twenty minutes. We park near a side entrance and then head inside. It doesn't feel right, being back here, knowing what I know…which is technically nothing. But Fury lied to Alexander Pierce and I still can't shake the feeling that something is wrong with SHIELD internally. But I don't know how to tell Steve that, so I keep it to myself.

This—like most things in my pathetic life—turns out to be a mistake. But we'll get back to this later.

As it turns out, Pierce is the man who wants to meet with Steve. I follow him up the floor where Pierce's office is and as we approach his door, we see Agent 13 step out of it and walk down the hall.

"Captain Rogers," she says, nodding at him. "Fizzy." A nod at me.

"Neighbor," says Steve coolly and I hide my smirk. He's annoyed that she was assigned to protect him behind his back. What's the matter? Does he think a woman can't protect him? Or is it the _secrecy _that bites at him? Probably the latter. Steve never used to have an issue with woman doing anything. In fact, if I recall, he once told me that he thought we'd have a woman president one day. Well…hasn't happened yet. But hey, Victoria Marsden for 2034?

"Wait outside," says Steve and I'm only too happy to oblige. I don't want Shark Eyes ever looking at me again. I lean against the glossy wall and aimlessly tap my feet in some random tune while Steve chats up with Creepy McCreepy Eyes inside. Okay, I know I should stop calling him nicknames, but it's too tempting, especially with eyes like his.

The talk doesn't take very long. Maximum eight minutes. Steve exits the room and he has a troubled expression on his face. He's thinking hard about something and it's not something pleasant. Interesting. It reminds me of the expression that Fury had for a moment when leading me through the Triskelion and I wonder if Steve's gotten a weird vibe as well. Perhaps now is the time to mention Fury's deception with Pierce…

"Let's go," he finally says. "We need to get that flash drive." He leads me down the hall and we step into the elevator. Two whole walls are glass. It goes down one floor and the doors slide open. The dark-haired man from the hospital last night steps in with three buddies. The doors shut and he looks at Steve. "Captain."

"Rumlow," Steve acknowledges.

"Who's your little friend?" Rumlow asks.

"Call me Fizzy," I say.

Rumlow cocks an eyebrow but nods as if to say _Not bad, not bad_. "Interesting. Are you, ah…"

"New SHIELD recruit," I lie smoothly. "I got lost. Captain Rogers is being helpful enough to show me to where I need to go."

"Nice of him," Rumlow says flatly. He darts Steve a quick glance. "I, uh, I'm sorry about what happened to Fury. Messed up."

Steve stares at Rumlow for a moment before saying, "Thank you." His tone is short and clipped. Not exactly friendly.

I glance at Steve. His expression is hard and thoughtful and he's staring at Rumlow. I look away and carefully look at the agents with Rumlow. I notice one man is casually fingering the gun strapped to his thigh. My shoulders tense a little. The doors of the elevators slide open and a small crowd of businessmen step in. Steve and I take a few steps back. The doors shut and everyone stands in silence as we go down. Steve looks at a businessman and I see his blue eyes flicker with something unidentifiable.

Doors slide open again. This time three scary-looking thug-like men get on, burly and clad in all black, their leader having greasy slicked back black hair like the rude boys on the corners of streets back in the day, whistling and shouting lewd things to all the girls. Steve got beat up by a few of them a few fair times, for defending the girls. Not that the girls ever thanked him.

"Vi—Fizzy, this is your stop," Steve says suddenly, his voice a bit urgent. "This is the floor you want." He wants me to get off here. My radar immediately goes into hyper-drive. Something is very, very wrong. Steve wants me to get off and—oh, too late, the doors have slid shut and I hear Steve give the tiniest of exasperated sighs. There is tension in the elevator and I can feel a storm brewing. It's the feeling I always get when I'm in a crowd on the streets and a fight is about to break out. There's an unnatural stillness in the air and the set of peoples' shoulders.

I stare at the back of the burly man's head, greasy shoulder-length black hair slicked back, and I can feel a tidal wave of anger and panic building in me. My heart is beating more quickly and my hands are beginning to vibrate just the smallest amount. They feel hotter too. This is my body gearing up for a fight. I know what's coming. I'm used to this. Just not in such confined spaces with such large people…

"Before we begin," Steve says slowly, "does anyone want to get out?"

There's a split second of still silence—and then everyone explodes into action. Two men grab Steve and slam him against the wall. One man holding a heavy-looking gray metal cuff is trying to lock it onto Steve's arm and slam his arm to the wall. I get it—it's magnetic. If Captain America can't move, Captain America can't fight. But Steve is putting up a hell of a fight and he manages to yank his arm down and send the guy flying.

Now, no one's really dove at me yet. I've been shoved aside. I'm not a priority. But I know they'll grab me eventually and I have to help Steve so I tap the man in front of me on the shoulders. He turns, surprised, and I slam my fist into his face as hard as I can. Years of fighting on the streets have paid off. I'm small but I have the element of surprise. He staggers back, blood streaming from his nose, and then he dives at me and we're fighting. I'm punching and kicking anyone in close proximity to me but these guys are quick and strong and I receive a few good punches in the gut as well, making me bend over and wheeze. I hear Rumlow shout, "This isn't personal!" in the background and then I hear Steve crying out in pain. One guy grabs my hair and yanks me back, whispers in my ear, "You shouldn't have gotten involved, you meddling bi—"

My vision goes red and I taste metal in my mouth. Pennies. Blood. Electricity. It's the taste of rage. I slam my hands outwards and the agent smashes against the glass of the elevator so hard he knocks out. I whirl on the other man next to me and raise my hands upwards violently. He slams into the ceiling and then I let him drop. He immediately passes out. Being forcefully slammed into a ceiling can do that to you.

My chest is rising and falling, my face is sweaty, and my hair is falling into my eyes. I whirl to face Steve just as he smashes his foot onto his shield to catch it on his arms and growls, "Yeah, well, it _feels _personal."

For a moment we stand there and then I say, "SHIELD's just attacked you. We need to get out of here." See what I mean about mistake? I should have told Steve earlier. We might have been able to somehow avoid getting trapped like this…

"Right." The elevator stops at a floor and the doors open—only to show us a battalion of SWAT-like SHIELD agents in full black combat gear, face masks, and machine guns facing us. "Get out of the elevator, Captain Rogers, and we won't harm you or your friend," comes the buzzlike voice of one man behind the mask.

How are we going to get out of this? The elevator doors won't close in time to stop the bullets that are sure to pepper us if we make a move to shut the doors. We're done for. I glance at Steve in desperation—and he suddenly spins as fast as lightning and smashes his shield into the elevator panel with the buttons. The elevator drops like a stone without closing its doors, whizzing past several floors and I hold onto a railing for support, hair streaming upwards. My feet actually lift off the ground for a second. We slam to a stop and I'm thrown to the floor violently. I get to my feet and see that the elevator doors have slammed shut.

"Quick, open the doors!" I hiss.

Steve wrenches the doors apart while I try not be jealous of his raw strength and we see a horde of rapidly approaching strike agents' feet (we've not landed fully on the floor) running down the hall towards us.

"Quick, close the doors!" I hiss.

He quickly slams the doors shut and we stare at each other in alarm. "What now?" I ask.

He looks wildly around the elevator while someone outside the elevator yells, "Open up, Rogers! You have nowhere to run!"

Steve looks at the glass wall behind me and then raises an eyebrow. I groan because I know what he's suggesting and it's madness—but I can't see any other way out. "Can we survive the fall?" I demand.

"We can try," he says.

We have no choice. So he grabs me around the waist and then I squeeze my eyes shut as he takes a running leap at the glass wall and smashes through it with his shield. We hurtle to the ground, wind whipping our faces, and smash through the glass ceiling of SHIELD's entrance hall, hitting the floor with a loud thud. Every bone in my body aches and I roll off of Steve, groaning. He's groaning too, but thankfully, his shield has absorbed most of the impact of what was sure to be quite a fatal fall. What's that thing made out of anyway, magic? I like it. I want one.

I grab his arm and yank him up. "This way," he says and then we take off, sprinting. He may be twenty times stronger than me but one thing I'm almost equal in is speed. He's a super-soldier so he runs faster than a normal human, but I've been running faster than normal people my whole life. So I'm almost able to keep pace with him, only a step or two behind at all times. I suspect he's thankful for this. Carrying me everywhere would be A) annoying for him, and B) humiliating and unacceptable for me.

We rush to his motorcycle, throw ourselves on, and then we're racing down the main SHIELD entrance road, the one that goes over a part of the river. As we do, we approach a gate where spikes are emerging from the ground. Steve revs the engine of the motorcycle and goes full throttle, exploding forward in a burst of speed and sailing over the spikes. My head jerks and slams against his head but I can't help but let out a whoop of joy. This is kind of fun. This is kind of exciting. This is—

"Captain Rogers, stand down now," blasts an extremely loud and mechanical voice as a round fighter jet hovers in front of us on the road and locks and loads its massive guns.

I take it back. This isn't fun at all. This is foolish and fatal. We're toast.

The jet begins shooting at us and Steve swerves wildly right and left, avoiding bullets like our lives depend on it.

Which…they do. Depend on it, I mean. Ignore me, I tend to babble when I'm panicking.

My hands are shaking and heating up a little and my head is hurting. I want to help—but how? There is no way in the world I can move a jet. That's way beyond my power. Or…is it? I focus on the jet and thrust one hand out to it, flinging it to the side, hoping the jet will magically fling to the right as well. But no banana. Nothing happens, as expected.

"Victoria, stay here!" Steve shouts as we approach the jet. We'll be under it in a few seconds.

"What?" I shout back—and then Steve leaps off the motorcycle onto the jet. I scream and throw myself forward, wildly grasping for the clutches of the motorcycle—but alas, I don't know which is which and I accidentally accelerate wildly, spinning and slamming into the wall of the bridge. I topple off the motorcycle and lay on my back in shock and awe as I witness Steve do literally the impossible by leaping around a _jet _and smashing his shield into its engines. He really is a super-soldier. I've never really seen him in action but this is amazing. I'm so jealous. I'm the one with the powers and here he is, singlehandedly taking down a jet. He's whirling around and smashing things and I'm laying like a turtle on my back. I scramble to my feet just as the jet teeters off course and then spins and goes smashing to the ground far beyond the road. Steve's leaped off the jet, landed dramatically on the ground, and now he's coming up running to me.

He leaps onto the motorcycle and then we go racing off. "Where are we going?" I shout into his ear as we bypass all the rest of SHIELD checkpoints quickly and get further and further away from the Triskelion.

"Clothes," he shouts back.

I have no idea what he means but the wind is rushing too quickly into my face to ask any more questions so I hang tight while he races through the streets. We screech to a stop in an alleyway five minutes later and he hustles me through a backdoor, leading me into what looks like a dark and dusty thrift shop. It's cool in here, smells like old books, and has racks of clothes randomly laying about. Not very organized.

"I have an arrangement with the owner," he says in a low voice. "I can stop here and pick up clothes in case of an emergency at any time. Quick, change your clothes. We need to get moving." He disappears and I throw myself at a rack, frantically rifling through them.

Several floral dresses and girly things catch my eye and I can't help but let out a small sigh of longing. It's been so long since I've dressed femininely. I was raised in dresses and I want to wear a dress again and curl my hair and _try _to feel pretty. But now is not the time. I find a baggy gray t-shirt, a pair of black skinny pants, and an oversized dark royal blue hoodie. They all look and smell relatively clean so I quickly change into them, keeping my own black Converse sneakers on. Trusty things, them.

Steve steps into sight and he's wearing black sweatpants, a gray t-shirt, and a black hoodie. He looks at me for a second and says something surprising: "That hoodie brings out your eyes." Never mind the fact that the comment is totally out of place—but it's also false. I may not be an artist, but I don't think royal blue brings out steely gray-blue very well. He turns and says, "Let's go."

I decide I'll dwell on the comment later and leap back onto the motorcycle and we take off again. This time he keeps to side streets and doesn't break any speed laws, to keep attention off of us. It takes us longer but it's safer this way. We arrive at the hospital and he parks at the very back of the parking lot, near a tree. We fast-walk into the hospital. I can see that Steve is itching to burst into a run but that _would _look suspicious. As we enter, he pulls his hood above his head and I want to scream at him. Is he a complete idiot? That looks so shady! I've seen so many thugs on the street hanging about with their hoods pulled over their heads, shadowing their faces, staring at you as you pass by. But miraculously, no one gives us a second glance as we make it to the vending machine where he left the flash drive. Unbelievable. Everyone in this hospital ought to be fired.

We peer into the vending machine—only to find it empty. My mouth falls open and I turn to look at Steve. His eyes are wide and he looks shocked. "See?" I hiss. "Someone was _really _hungry for spearmint gum!" I kick the vending machine in frustration. "God! Now we'll never know—"

Someone blows a loud bubble behind us and we both spin to see Agent Romanoff chewing gum and smirking at us, wearing black agent clothes again. She cocks her head and there's a playful-yet-harsh look in her eyes, as if she's smiling through her pain. (Or maybe I've been reading too much Shakespearean tragedy lately. What can I say, I read what I can find.) Then I curb a gasp as Steve grabs her and shoves her through a door. I dive after them and slam the door shut as he slams her against a wall. The room is dark and empty. I can't help but blink at Steve. Seeing him treat a woman this way…it's all wrong. Steve always said any man who put his hands on a woman for _any _reason deserved to get those hands cut off. Further proof that this Steve Rogers is not the friend I knew.

"Where's the flash drive?" he demands.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says lazily.

He shakes her roughly. "You know damn well what I'm talking about."

"Why?" She raises her eyebrows. "What's on it?"

"I'm not going to ask you again," he growls. "Where's the drive?"

"I know who shot Fury," she whispers suddenly, her eyes watching his face intently. She's casting a line in the open waters and she's waiting…

Steve hesitates and I know he's interested, despite her obvious attempt to distract him. "Who?" he finally asks. He's hooked.

And now I finally recognize Agent Natasha Romanoff for the master she is. I could stand to learn a few tricks from this woman.

"They call him the Winter Soldier," she says. "Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists. The ones that do have never seen him, but he's been credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years." I stare at her, eyebrows furrowed. The man who grabbed me—well, I didn't see much of his face. But he didn't seem like he was over the age of fifty to me, not at all.

"So he's a ghost," says Steve.

"You'll never find him," she replies. "I would know. I've tried. Five years ago, I was escorting a…"

Oh no. They're getting into personal stories now. Boring. I look around the room. It appears to be an unused operating room. I wander to a locked cabinet in the back and yank on the doors. The chains rattle slightly but they appear to be thin and cheaply-made. Obviously no one meant to keep these doors locked forever. It's probably a safety protocol, if the room isn't currently in use. I crouch by the cabinet doors and focus on the chains, holding my hands up and clenching my fists slightly. I narrow my eyes and stare at the silver chains…

_Snap_, I will inside my mind and pull my hands apart quickly. The chains snap apart and slither through the cabinet doors to the floor. I open the cabinet and inspect the insides. It's full of tools. I stick my hand in (not a smart idea, come to think of it) and feel something pointy. Yanking it out, I see it's a long, thin, sharp silver blade. A scalpel? Whatever. It looks dangerous. I stuff it in the strangely-deep pockets of my hoodie.

"Victoria!"

I stand up, turning quickly to see Steve and Agent Romanoff staring at me. Steve looks a bit exasperated and Agent Romanoff a bit surprised. "So that's what you do," she says, sounding a bit impressed. Only mildly, though. "Interesting. Fury didn't clue me into that one. Powers—Stark's going to be all over you."

"Ta da," I say sarcastically, making jazz hands at her.

"We need to get going," says Steve. "They're going to be searching for me." He shows me the flash drive. "Natasha had it. Now we need to crack it."

"I can do that," says Agent Romanoff. "Just get me to a computer. In fact…" She smiles suddenly. "I know where to go. But first, we need a change of clothes."

"We just changed clothes," I say.

"You and Steve are fine," she says, "but I still look like an agent."

"I know just the place," says Steve. "Let's go."

* * *

It's a bit difficult to ride on the motorcycle (let's just say that we made a SHIELD agent sandwich with a layer of smashed Victoria in between) but we arrive at the mall eventually. I don't know the name of it but it seems upscale and it gives me the heebie-jeebies. Full of rich people and rich teenagers with shiny hair and indifferent faces. The type of people to either sneer at me on the street or worse, look at me with pity and flick me a quarter. And then there are those who simply ignore you, as if the homeless and poor are invisible and therefore not a problem.

We stride into the mall, trying to keep a low profile, and Agent Romanoff murmurs, "Run, don't walk," to Steve.

"If I tried to run in these shoes, they'd fall off," he mutters, shooting me a look, and I smirk to myself, hiding my laugh behind a cough. Agent Romanoff changed into skinny jeans and skater shoes and I, seeing a great opportunity to cause some mischief, forced Steve to wear skater shoes as well. "It's for the disguise," I said innocently when he glared at me.

We make our way to the Apple store and Agent Romanoff gets to work. She sticks the flash drive into a computer while Steve looks over her shoulder. They instruct me to stand guard and keep an eye out for SHIELD agents. Agent Romanoff assures me that I'll know one if I see one. "They won't be in disguise like us," she says. I nod and move off to casually lean against the entrance of the store, crossing my arms and giving myself a hooded-eyelid look, like a bored and sullen teenager whose mommy didn't buy her the latest iPad. I'm glad for an excuse to not look at all the weird technology. It's dizzying and strange. The whole world on these flat, white devices… Also, I think Agent Romanoff wants me away because she and Steve are going for the "couple" disguise and a random teenager following them around ruins it. I'm too old to be their child and too different looking to be a sibling so I throw the balance off.

I always have. I did with Bucky and Steve and I do now with Agent Romanoff and Steve. Forever a third wheel, me.

"Fizzy," calls Agent Romanoff, "come here."

I walk over and peer at the screen just as she yanks the flash drive out. "Wheaton, New Jersey," she murmurs to me. "In case something goes wrong and Steve and I get made—you make a break for it and head there. I want you to hold onto this." She drops the flash drive into my palm and closes my fingers around it.

I look at her, stunned. "Agent Romanoff…you're trusting _me_ with this?" I pocket the flash drive even as I speak.

She smiles faintly. "I think no one would suspect you on your own, that's what I'm saying. And you can call me Natasha. I think we're beyond the formalities."

"Right, can we discuss names later?" interjects Steve. "We need to go."

We hustle out of the store, a strange hippie-like man with long hair and a beard watching us go, and head down the walkway. By now we're aware that there are several agents milling around, on the lookout for us. They stick out like sore thumbs, to be completely honest. Poor planning on their part.

"Fizzy, fall back," commands Natasha and I immediately comply. Normally I don't follow anyone's orders but Agent Romanoff has won my respect because she's a badass.

I'll probably have to apologize for smashing her in the face with a steel pipe, however.

"Steve, laugh at something I say," she says. I see an agent approaching us from the opposite direction and I twirl my hair around my finger and look at the store windows we pass as if I'm really interested in the apparel.

"What?" asks Steve and I want to roll my eyes and kick him. For a superhero, he sure can be slow on the uptake.

"Now!" hisses Natasha and he quickly ducks his head and lets out literally the fakest, lamest laugh I have ever heard. You can practically hear the desperation in it and I'm surprised the agent doesn't immediately spin around and shout, "_You_, with the terrible laugh!" But no, the agent walks right past us, doesn't give us a second glance.

Steve and Natasha get on an escalator going down to the first floor. I let two people cut in front of me and then get on as well. I know how to tail people well and I know the agents will be on the lookout for a group of two people—one man and two women. I won't give us up. I stick my hands in my pockets and look down the escalator at the opposite side going up. My blood freezes as I see a man I recognize: the dark-haired, tan guy, the one named Rumlow who tried Tasering (I've finally figured out what it is) Steve. Crap. I look around for a distraction and see an iPhone sticking out of the back pocket of the teenage girl in front of me. Thankful for my pick pocketing skills (though, really, they're not even needed in this case; _how _stupid are teenagers?), I slip it out of her back pocket and began flying my fingers across the screen, grinning to myself like I've received a funny message. I casually brush my hair down so a curtain hangs between me and Rumlow. Hopefully now all he'll see is a teenage girl with long hair covering her face, texting like every other teenager on the planet.

Once he's safely past me, I stick the phone back in the girl's pocket and crane my neck down to see what Steve and Natasha—

They're _kissing_. My jaw falls and I lean so far forward that I almost fall down the escalator. Just as my eyes are widening to dinner plate proportions, they pull apart and get off the escalator. I follow them, trying my best not to run after them and demand to know what was going on. Do they have a thing going on? Was that just a distraction? Certainly a very _personal _distraction, if you ask me. You didn't see me grabbing the boy behind me and kissing him for a distraction. (Though the way he'd been staring at me, I don't think he'd have minded.) But I can't blow our cover now, not when we're so close, so I chew the inside of my cheek and follow them.

It occurs to me that I've never seen Steve kiss a girl. Bucky…yes. Many times. To my intense shock and horror, my stomach flips in a way that can only be described as…_jealous._

_ You're sick, Fizzy. You're a sick, sick girl._

I can't believe a small part of me still feels this way, even decades later…

No. Head in the game, girl. Do not dwell on things that are dead and gone.

I shake my head, stuff my hands in my pockets, and stride out the entrance, ignoring the stupid teenage boys who wolf-whistle at me at the entrance. My hands itch for the chance to knock their teeth out. I can do it, too. But no, sorry, boys—your ugly faces will be spared for another day.

I cross the parking lot aimlessly, wondering where Steve and Natasha have gone, and suddenly a dark purple Jeep pulls to a stop in front of me. Natasha is in the passenger seat and Steve is driving. I quickly slide into the seat in the back and we take off, getting away from the mall as fast as we can. I don't even need to ask where we're going. Wheaton, New Jersey, here we come. Time to figure out what's on this flash drive.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: So I wrote a little one-shot about Bucky Barnes called "Ultraviolet." Check it out. (This is like my third one-shot about him…I'm beginning to feel like I'm strangely obsessed with this movie now. Someone save me.) Thanks for reading and reviewing! I love each and every one of you. By the way, I'm so sorry about the terrible way I wrote Zola's accent. I don't mean it to be offensive to anyone who has a German or Swiss accent! I just wrote it late at night and really had no way to convey his thick accent so I kind of went the cliche route. But if it really offends anyone, let me know, and I can change it. **

* * *

"So where'd Captain America learn to steal a car?" asks Natasha, relaxing with her feet on the dashboard, ankles crossed. She's smiling that smile I've come to realize is her trademark. It's like a slow, small, mysterious smile that borders on a full-blown smirk and betrays nothing.

Steve throws her a look. "World War II. And we're borrowing it, not stealing it, so take your feet off the dash."

Natasha raises an eyebrow but obliges. She turns to face me and asks, "So now that we have time to talk…_why _exactly are you in this mess, Fizzy?"

"Can someone please tell me why everyone keeps calling you _Fizzy_?" demands Steve. "Your name is Victoria Marsden. Am I missing something?"

"Who do I answer first?" I ask.

"Me," say both Natasha and Steve at the same time. Natasha glares at Steve and punches him lightly in the arm. "_Me_," she insists. "Why are you here? How did you meet the famous Captain America?"

I lean forward between the seats and I can practically _sense _Steve rolling his eyes. I take a deep breath. There's really no point hiding this anymore… "I know Steve," I say, "from the twentieth century. We grew up together. He was my best friend."

"_Was_?" demands Steve.

I groan and press my thumbs to my temples. "Steve, shut up. I…can't do this with you right now. Let me tell Natasha the story." I look at Natasha and to her credit, she looks completely calm, as if she hears everyday that the people she's hanging out with are decades old but still look infinitely young. "Yeah, I was best friends with Steve…and our other friend, Bucky Barnes," I say. "I was younger by four years but we pretty much became friends when we were little kids and we stayed friends growing up. I discovered I had these powers when I was a little kid but I never told Bucky or Steve—or _anyone_—because I was afraid they'd say I was a freak. I was afraid I'd get carted away and cut up by scientists."

"Which, by the way, I would never have said," Steve cuts in. "I'd never have called you a freak."

"Really?" I ask dubiously. "Powers that let me move things without touching them, Steve?" I'm not trying to paint him badly but honestly _who _would be cool with my powers, especially back in those days, when even the color of your skin made you a lesser person?

"Sounds like telekinesis," frowns Natasha. "Research has been done on if it exists but nothing's been proven. Until you. You're a walking wonder."

"A walking wonder, huh?" I mutter. "Well, isn't that something." I don't feel like a walking wonder, to be honest. There's nothing wonderful about me. I mean, sure, on a superficial level, I'm sort of self-obsessed and in love with myself. I know I'm tough and I know I can walk the walk. But deep down…I know I'm a freak. I've never fit in and I never will. I'll always be the third wheel my whole life. I'm not particularly pretty or talented and the only thing I have going for me is my sassy mouth—which isn't exactly a great accomplishment, seeing as how it's bound to get me killed one day.

"Seriously, you should have told us," insists Steve. "I mean…fine. I admit. I'd probably have been a little shocked. But I would _never _have called you a freak or abandoned you. You never abandoned me when—" He breaks off suddenly.

"When?" Natasha prompts.

Steve is silent. I grin. "When Steve was a skinny little twerp and got his butt kicked on a weekly basis," I say. "You may not believe this, Natasha, but Captain America used to be a shrimp."

"Oh, I can believe it," says Natasha. "I've been to the exhibit. He was the same size I was when I was twelve." She laughs, a slightly raspy chuckling sound.

"Alright, alright," grumbles Steve. "I was short, small, and skinny. Moving on."

"Moving on…" I bite my lip. "So anyway, Steve and Bucky went off to war. I waited around for them…and eventually I got the news that both of them had died." I pause then because the memories are flooding back. After all, it feels like it was only four years ago that this all happened. I still remember all the days I spent locked in my room, shattered objects around me. The fact that I stopped going out completely. All the nights spent crying.

I really was a huge crybaby back then.

I decide to skip all this emotional stuff because there's really no human way for me to describe the gut-wrenching, heart-crushing pain I went through. "At the end of the year, that summer, Arnim Zola found me—" I start.

Steve slams on the breaks so hard I nearly catapult out the window except he grabs me right before my head smashes through the windshield. "DUDE!" I shout, wrenching myself away from his grasp. He starts up driving again, several cars behind us angrily honking and whizzing around us, throwing us the finger through their windows. I don't blame them. "Are you insane? Why did you do that?!"

"Sorry, it was just—a reflex," he says. "But did you just say _Arnim Zola_? You didn't mention his name when you told me this! You just said some short, fat man came and got you!"

"I didn't realize his name was important," I snap. "It was _decades_ ago. You were frozen in ice by then. How would you know him?"

"Victoria, Arnim Zola worked for HYDRA!" Steve says. "The Nazi rogue science division that I helped shut down, with Bucky and the rest of the Howling Commandos."

"HYDRA?" Natasha repeats, frowning. "I've heard some stuff about them. They were using power from the Tesseract during the war. Led by the Red Skull, right?"

"Yeah," says Steve.

"But you guys shut HYDRA down during the war," she counters. "They haven't been heard since. So how did this Arnim Zola character get to Fizzy? Or Victoria. Whatever your name is."

"We never actually captured Zola," Steve admits grudgingly. "He got away. But since we destroyed the rest of HYDRA…I figured we'd catch up to him eventually. Except then I…well, you know, crashed myself and got frozen. I haven't even given Zola a second thought since I've woken up… If I _had_, I'd have assumed that U.S. forces eventually caught him or he went into hiding."

HYDRA. I'm half-listening to Steve ramble on and on about his war stuff but I'm also lost in my own thoughts. HYDRA. I mouth the word to myself to get a feel for it. It feels…slippery. Unpleasant. Is HYDRA the group that held me? Steve said he destroyed it…but could it possibly have survived somehow? I strain hard to think about my time being held captive. It's difficult because it's usually something I ignore with all my heart and soul, even _more _than I try to ignore memories of my real past. My time as a captive is the source of all of my nightmares and dark dreams. All those years of confusion, pain, anger, humiliation… The feelings of being lost and locked up. Not knowing where I was. Who I was dealing with. What had happened to my father. Why I was being forced to use my powers. Why I was being beaten.

But try as I might, I can't make the name HYDRA click with the people that held me captive. They were always _very _careful to never reveal any information about themselves. They could have been HYDRA…but they could just as easily have been Coca Cola. In fact, there's really no reason to even suspect they were HYDRA. Steve's already stated he destroyed HYDRA, that it was a small rogue division of the Nazi party. More likely the organization that kidnapped me was a totally different (yet equally sick) league of people.

"He probably joined or formed a new organization," I say. "Anyway…he kidnapped me, with the help of some other men. And then they…" I trail off and bite my lip. Do I want Steve to hear this?

"Then they?" prompts Steve.

"They froze me," I say. "I don't know how. But they froze my in a box. It was like…I didn't age. I didn't die. I wasn't living. I wasn't awake or conscious—but I was _aware _I was frozen. I don't know how to describe it. My body was slowed down too much for me to be able to think—but there was always this consciousness that I was frozen and that I was so cold. I was always cold."

"Cryopreservation," Natasha murmurs.

"Come again?" I ask.

"Cryopreservation," she repeats more loudly. "A more advanced form of what happened to Steve. _He _survived being frozen in ice because he's a super-soldier. You're not a super-soldier but the technology controlling you was more advanced. Essentially, your cells—and your entire body—was preserved at sub-zero temperatures to keep you from aging or dying. So we would say you were in cryogenic stasis. I've heard of cells and test animals being frozen in cryogenesis…but never a full-bodied human being for so long." She stares at me and I shift uncomfortably; for the first time, she's looking at me like I'm some sort of freak. "To keep you alive for this many decades, they'd _have _to have a system for constantly feeding you vitamins and minerals and nutrients. A system of that complexity and size…it would take unparalleled technology and money."

"Which means that the people who kidnapped Victoria aren't just nobodies," says Steve grimly.

"And they're after her again," says Natasha, just as grimly. "Fury commanded me to find her because she's in danger."

"I know," I say heavily. "He told me. It's them. The people who kidnapped me."

"To still be around decades later…" Natasha rapidly taps her thighs, biting her lip and looking like she's lost in thought. And then she suddenly bursts out, "But how did you _live_? Feeding you nutrients through tubes—I get that. But after being frozen for decades…your muscles should have turned to liquid. You should be a vegetable right now, unable to move. I don't understand—"

"They did take me out," I say. "A few times every year. Or I _think _it was every year. I never knew what year it was. Sometimes they'd hook me up to things and do testing. Other times they'd put me in rooms and obstacle courses to test my—powers. The more stressed or panicked I got, the more powerful my powers got. One time they put a king cobra in a room with me and told me to find a way out. I ended up getting so freaked out that I blew a hole in the wall and I nearly escaped the facility. They toned it down after that—but they also punished me."

"Punished?" demands Steve. "Punished how?"

I look at Steve and notice how tense his face is. I'm not sure I want to tell him this. His knuckles are already white on the steering wheel. Any more shocking revelations to him and he might just accidentally rip the steering wheel off and kill us all. I haven't forgotten his little braking incident.

Speaking off, I really should put on my seatbelt. Buckle up, kids! Safety first.

"Let's leave it at that," I say.

"Victoria—"

"I _said_," I say in a dangerous voice, "let's leave it at that."

He shoots me an angry look but he chooses to back off. Good man. An angry me is not something anyone really wants to deal with. I'll probably end up shattering every window in the SUV and then where will we be?

"So what happened then?" asks Natasha, guiding me back on track. "How did you get from the facility to _here_?"

"I escaped," I say and I'm thrown back in my memories. It was certainly odd—a portly, awkward man helped me escape. He didn't tell me his name or ask anything of me. All I remembered was him unplugging me one day and yanked me out of…what did Natasha call it? Cryogenesis? He gave me clothes to wear and then helped me escape the building, sending me off to the woods. I wish I'd gotten his name or why he'd helped me. I wonder if he's still out there with the answers to my questions—or if he's been killed already. Considering the beatings I got when I refused to play nice or when I didn't show my powers enough, I'd say it's probably the latter. "Some man helped me. I don't know why. But he helped me escape and I found myself in Washington D.C."

"How long did it take you to get here?" asks Natasha.

"Not too long," I say. "A few days." A few days of wild, panicked, blind stumbling through the woods, nearly getting hit by cars on the highway. Of being blinded by the sun and freezing at night, scared and terrified of every noise. Terrified that they were coming back for me. Confusion at the fast-paced cars and strange sights and clothes and people.

"So they can't have been situated too far from D.C.," says Natasha. "I'm going to do some looking into this. Find out what facilities or storage sites may be 'abandoned' or unincorporated in the area surrounding D.C. There were forests, you say? That helps a little."

"And escaping somehow led to you being like…_this_," says Steve, waving a hand in my general direction.

"Being like _what_, Steve?" I challenge.

He's silent.

"Like _what_?" I repeat. I'm being cruel. I know what he means. But something deep inside me is angry. Angry at him—or angry at the fact that he's not the him I remember him being. Something complicated and emotional like that. I'm not too interested in playing self-therapist and examining my anger issues. I have too many. But I can't stop myself from lashing out at him. It's confusing.

"Like a street thug," Natasha says, direct as ever.

"I did it to survive," I say. I feel a headache coming on and I rub my temples, wincing. I don't know why, but I'm desperate to make Steve understand why I've changed. It makes no sense because why should I care what he thinks? I've done what I needed to to stay alive. But his opinion matters—as much as I want to pretend like it doesn't. "The first two years I was out…I was lost," I say. I let out a harsh laugh. "I was from a different era, remember? Nothing about this world made sense. I was homeless and I spent a lot of time hiding and starving, afraid to go anywhere or meet anyone. Everything was confusing and way too fast and bright and scary. But eventually I stopped being a coward and I decided that if I was going to live in this world, I may as well do what I could to stay alive. And I started…" I rub my nose self-consciously. "Well, I learned to fight. I fought dirty. I beat people up. I started stealing. I did the crazy stuff no one else would. I earned a reputation."

"Does this reputation involve the name _Fizzy_?" asks Steve. "Seriously. I need an explanation."

He won't let go of this, will he? Well, fine. I'll tell him. It's not even that important of a story or that big of a deal. "When I first started hanging around some street kids, we went to a diner one morning at three a.m.," I say slowly. "And I asked for a fizzy drink. Meaning a soda or pop or whatever you guys call it in D.C. They all thought that was a real hoot and they started mocking me, calling me 'Fizzy'. Then I punched a kid in the face and dumped his milkshake down his shirt and people still called me Fizzy but they didn't do it mockingly anymore."

Natasha and Steve are silent and suddenly Natasha snorts. I lean forward and look at her and she's _laughing_. Of all the—

"Is this funny?" I ask delicately.

"You called it a _fizzy drink_?" she laughs. "Oh god, that's too good. That sounds so 1940s."

"Obviously," I say. "That was the point of the story." I lean back in my seat and stare out the window. The nickname is stupid but I let it keep. Better than using my real name—and a small part of me likes the fact that it comes from me referencing something from my original life. My past. That era…it's a part of me that won't let go. It's vintage and antique to people now but I can close my eyes and still see my world come back to life, lively as ever.

Except everyone I knew is dead now.

Morbid, right? I should be at a poetry café or something.

I have a headache building up behind my eyes and since Steve and Natasha aren't talking, I close my eyes and fall into an uneasy sleep. I haven't slept well in years and right now is no exception. I'm too used to sleeping with one eye open (um…metaphorically. I don't _literally _sleep with one eye open because, aside from being physically impossible, how freaking creepy would that be?) and my nerves are already stretched to the limit from meeting (re-meeting?) Steve and getting caught up in this violent mess and telling my story to Steve and Natasha…

* * *

"Fizzy, wake up, we're almost there." A hand gently shoves my shoulder. My eyes snap open and I slam my hand onto their wrist, my grip tightening automatically. When I realize it's _Natasha_, I immediately let her go. My reflexes are fast but I've no doubt she's stronger than me. She could have chosen to twist my arm and free herself but she didn't, so I (and my arm) am grateful for that.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and push my hair out of my face. Natasha is watching me. She pulls a black hair tie off of her wrist and hands it to me. "Here," she says. "Seeing you constantly push your hair out of your face is killing me."

I look at her glossy, straight locks and suppress a sigh of envy. Of course _she'd _look like a beauty queen, even while on some dangerous mission. _She _doesn't need a hair tie, of course not—her hair stays magically put, not a beautiful strand out of place.

_Easy now, Fizz. You're acting quite catty._

I mentally smack myself upside the head for letting my stupid insecurities show their ugly faces and I tie my hair up into a high pony so I don't have to feel my hair on my neck. "Thanks," I say, a bit grudgingly. "How much further?"

"Just half an hour," she says. We're all silent for a moment and I look out the window. The sun has moved lower in the sky but evening hasn't fallen yet. It seems to be late afternoon-ish. My stomach growls and I bend over in embarrassment to hide the sound. _Please, stomach, just shut up. I promise I'll reward you later if you don't humiliate me right now. _

Suddenly, Natasha looks at Steve and a smile plays on her lips. "So I have a question for you."

"What?" asks Steve.

"You don't have to answer it if you don't want to," she continues, "although if you _don't_, I kind of feel like that's sort of giving me an answer anyway—"

"_What_, Natasha?" Steve asks, a hint of exasperation to his tone.

"Was that the first time you've been kissed since 1940?" she asks, grinning.

I freeze. Oh dear. We're talking about Steve's love life? This could get awkward. Though I admit—my previous curiosity is piqued. Why is she asking? Is she interested in Steve? An evil grin spreads across my face.

"That bad, huh?" Steve asks.

"N—That's not what I said," she insists. "I'm just saying…you have to have practice—"

"You don't need practice," says Steve.

"_Everyone _needs practice," says Natasha at the same time I chime in, "Yes, you do."

"That wasn't my first kiss since the 1940s, okay?" Steve says. "I'm 90, not _dead_."

"Who have _you _been kissing?" I demand, leaning forward.

"Who have _you_?" he asks.

I immediately think of Bucky—

Why? Why would I think of him? He's _dead_. I have so many issues. See? This is what being kidnapped, frozen in cryogenesis for decades, and then shoved into a new century can do to a young woman. So many weird things. Zero out of ten would recommend.

"No one," I say. "But I didn't admit to kissing people, like you did."

"Is it the nurse on your floor?" Natasha teases.

"Who, Agent 13?" Steve grumbles. "No way." But I notice a pink flush has crept up his neck so yeah, I'm gonna take his words with a pinch of salt.

"She's very pretty," I say slyly, remembering Agent 13's blonde wavy hair. Steve always _did _have a thing for blondes. Bucky went for dark-haired girls. I, on the other hand, was neither, with my golden-auburn hair. Go figure.

"Oh, would you look at that!" Steve says suddenly in an obnoxiously loud voice. "We're here!" He's trying to make his tone sound serious and grim but his eyes are singing, _And thaaaaaaank the Lord that we are! _I can't help but grinning. Messing around with Steve about his love life was something Bucky and I took real joy in, back in the day.

Of course, then Steve would turn the tables on _me_. And my situation was equally as embarrassing. Guys never saw me. No one saw me, in fact, even though Bucky always insisted that if I just dressed up, went out more, and laughed a bit more in public, I could have any guy I wanted.

Except for the one I actually wanted, of course.

I clearly have the worst case of Cannot Move On Syndrome ever. Only…only the thing is, I'm not actually sure I do. Sure, I loved Bucky—but I don't think I'm in love with him now. I mean, how psycho would you have to be to _still _be in love with someone who's been dead so long? I don't know. I think what hurts me more about him—the reason I can't stop thinking about him—is what we missed out on. What _could _have been. Him coming back from war, perhaps seeing me as more than just a little girl, falling in love with me…we could have had a happy life together.  
And fine, screw that, even if he never would have seen me as more than a friend…I still mourn the loss of what _he _could have been. He could have had a home, a wife, kids. Grown up. Had happiness. But his life—like the lives of so many other good men and women—was cut tragically short. And that hurts me. I honestly wouldn't even mind growing up in a different century if I had the knowledge that Bucky came home from war and got to grow up and live his life. I'd feel peace then. But he didn't. He never came home and neither did Steve. Somehow _Steve's _magically shown up in the same century that I have but we both know Bucky won't. He's been gone for so long and it hurts me, knowing such a bright flame was extinguished so early. He really was the spark between us three. I might have been a soft, quiet candle and Steve was a steady, blazing fire—but Bucky had been the sparkler. The firework. He kept us three lively.

It hurts when the most _alive _young people die early. Guys like Bucky Barnes always deserve to live the most and they're always the ones who get to live the least. And that sucks so badly that it leaves a ball in my throat and sets my eyes on fire.

We pull up to a huge twelve-foot-tall rusted metal gate and I quickly wipe my tears away before anyone notices. Can't go around showing anyone emotions, can I? I need to be tough and cold and indifferent. It's the only way to survive with your head _and _your heart intact. I'd have gone crazy long ago if I hadn't learned to shut down on the inside. It's like flipping a switch. Smother your memories, stamp out your emotions, put a flat mask on your face. You can _feel _your eyes going dead and your heart freezing up. It's a change that's made people back away from fighting me before. You can see the absolute apathy in my eyes. Perhaps it's why Natasha gives me a long searching look after she sees my expression when I get out of the car.

Go on, Romanoff. I dare you to say something.

I stare at her, almost willing her to start something with me, but Ice Queen is a master at showing nothing herself and she turns away and nimbly hoists herself over the gate. "Did she just throw herself over the gate?" I ask out loud in shock.

Steve shrugs. "She's the Black Widow. She can do things like that."

The—sorry, the _what_? I give Steve a questioning look and he says, "That's what she's called. You guess why."

Because she's dangerous, deadly, silent, and because she looks fabulous in black. I'm going to go ahead and assume the last reason listed is also an official reason. No fair—Steve is Captain America and Natasha is Black Widow and together (along with a few other powerful people), they're the Avengers. Why don't _I_ get a badass sounding name? No, I get to be nicknamed after the vintage term for a soda. I mean…it's of my own doing that I have that nickname. But still. I could totally be called Blue Lightning. Or, you know, something that somehow makes sense in regards to my powers. I'll have to think on this and come up with a name.

Natasha unlocks the gate for us (by kicking the rusted lock and snapping it in half) and we walk in. The sky is darker now, the sun hidden behind the thick trees that surround the area, and we're all silent as we walk deeper into the…whatever it is. I can't help but feel strange as I observe the area. It's obviously abandoned but I have no idea what the place is—a bunch of buildings and sheds with broken-in, dark windows and spray-painted walls. The entire place is silent except for the chirping of crickets and other insects. A sad sort of feeling hovers in the air.

"Place looks different," says Steve.

I look at him in surprise as Natasha walks on top of a wooden line next to us, holding up her cell phone or some small device. "You know this place?" she asks, eyes focused on the device.

"Yeah," says Steve quietly. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks around and I see ghosts in his eyes. "I trained here. Before we got shipped off to Europe. During the war."

I look around again, trying to picture the area brand new and bustling with nervous-yet-proud young men trying their hardest to be cavalier and brave while rushing off to get themselves killed. Thinking themselves big men…when in reality, most of them weren't even close. Nineteen, twenty-one, twenty-three…what difference did it make? Mere children. I'm twenty-one now (I think…I was frozen at the age of seventeen and four years have passed since I've been _awake_, so technically…) and I definitely don't feel as if I'd be ready to pick up a gun and head to a foreign country to get myself killed. I look at the sheds—which I now realize are barracks—and, as if in a dream, see a ghostly Steve walk towards me. It's the same thing that happened with Bucky, the night I met Steve… I see him. He's short, around my height but an inch shorter, and skinny and pale, with a head that's too big for his body and neat blond hair. He's wearing a baggy, oversized brown suit coat and brown slacks and shoes that are so shiny I can see my reflection and he's smiling that _Steve _smile that I've missed so much. My hand drifts up of its own accord to touch his cheek—

"Victoria, what are you doing?"

The now-Steve's voice cuts through the memory and the then-Steve vanishes in the blink of an eye. I turn to babble some random excuse to Steve—"I have Sudden Limb Movement Syndrome" comes to mind (is that an actual disease? I don't _think _so)—but he's already turned away, not interested in why Victoria Marsden was trying to apparently stroke thin air. "Come on," he calls.

"Where?" I ask, following him.

He points to a building where Natasha is already standing in front of the door. "There," he says, hurrying over in long strides (damn those long legs of his). "I noticed that this building is out of place…" He pulls out his shield and slams the lock on the door. It falls off and we step inside the building, a very dim ghostly white light flickering to life. I shut the door behind us and we walk deeper into the building, looking around. It's long and narrow, filled with shelves and tables that are covered in inches of dust. Clearly no one has been here in years. I don't understand why Natasha is running her hand along a dusty bookshelf in the wall, looking so worried. Even if this building isn't supposed to be here, obviously nothing nefarious has happened here in—

She presses deeper into the bookshelf and we hear a loud click, and then the bookshelf slowly swings inwards to reveal a hidden chamber. Oh. Oops. Alright then, maybe we do need to be a bit worried.

We step into the other room and look around. As we walk, lights flicker to life above our heads and I can't help but feel uneasy. Aren't motion-sensing lights a thing of _our _era? This place seems abandoned and untouched and yet…these lights… This room is full of desks that are also covered in desks. I walk over to a head desk at the end of the room while Steve and Natasha look around at other things and peer at the three photos that hang above the wall. One is of a beefy-looking man who I don't recognize. The other is of a tan, dark-haired man who has a mischievous gleam in his eyes, even decades later, and a small moustache. I don't recognize him either. But the third photo—it lands like a dull punch in my gut. It's Agent Peggy Carter. She looks just as she did when I met her, close-mouthed, red-lipped smile and brown curls. I struggle to remind myself that she's not dead. She's still alive. But still—seeing her photo here…

Without me even realizing (which is saying something, mind you; it's _not _easy to sneak up on me), Steve's come up and stood right next to me. He's gazing at Peggy's photo with a wistful, closed off expression. He still loves her, this much is obvious. Both Steve and I are hung up on people who we can never be with. Neither of us can leave the past because it's still our present—at least in our hearts. I open my mouth to say something—and clumsily close it. I feel confused. Why do I want to comfort Steve? I have nothing to say to him.

I turn away just as Natasha calls, "Guys, you might wanna take a look at this." We hurry over to her. She's leaning against a wall and as we come up, she pressed an indent in the wall and two hidden panels in the wall slide open to reveal a hidden elevator. It's silver and shiny and though it doesn't look _new_, it certainly looks more modern than the rest of this whole area. She raises an eyebrow at us. "Now why would a secret room need a _hidden _elevator?"

"Let's find out," I say and I roughly jab the button that inserted into the side of the elevator. A down arrow. It's the only way to go, I suppose. It lights up golden and the elevator doors slide open. We step in and the doors slide shut. Hopefully this elevator trip won't be as disastrous as our last one. But we arrive down below without incident, thank heavens, and step out into a cavernous room which—of course—lights up as we walk into it. The lights are white and the room is filled with…

"Reels?" I ask, wrinkling my nose. I'm confused. Why are there hundreds of thousands of reels in the room? Tapes that play…something. The technology is ancient and I don't understand the purpose of the room. The room has a green tint to it and the white lights don't help, bathing us all in a ghastly green fluorescent glow that makes us all look as if we're terribly ill.

"This can't be where we bring the flash drive," says Natasha, frowning. "This technology is ancient."

We approach the main desk which has three computer screens and…a silver box on the table with a space to plug in a flash drive. We all see it at the same time and stare at it and then exchange glances. This is significant. Shrugging, Natasha sticks the flash drive into the open slot. Green words flash on the black computer screen in front of us: BEGIN?

Natasha hesitantly types in YES and then presses the Enter key. "Would you like to play a game?" she asks in a low voice, grinning slightly at Steve and I. "It's from a movie—" she explains.

"I know," Steve says shortly. "I've seen it."

I haven't seen it. I haven't seen many movies at all. I should change that. Perhaps I'll watch that _Finding Nemo _with Steve, one day. The thought is so absurd that I can't help but snicker to myself.

A face flickers to life on screen and suddenly I'm not snickering anymore. In fact, I'm shrieking. "ARNIM ZOLA!" I yell, pointing at the screen. Without even thinking, I grab Steve's arm and yank it. "That's Arnim Zola!"

"Quiet, Miss Marsden," the computerized Arnim Zola snaps and I gasp despite myself.

"How—how is this possible?" I demand. "There's no way you can be alive right now!"

"Oh, but I am," comes his warbly, mechanical voice. "Victoria Marsden…Steve Rogers…and Natalia Romanova. It is vell and truly me."

I stare at his ugly round face with his stupid Harry Potter glasses (yes, even _I've _read Harry Potter; I'm an out-of-time vagabond, not an uncultured swine) and feel a bit sick and dizzy. I want to smash the computer screen but obviously that wouldn't be very helpful. My throat feels blocked up and closed and I feel like even if I try to speak, all that'll come out is a strangled wheeze. This is the man who ruined my life. Who found me and took me away. Were it not for him, I'd have grown up in the right time. I wouldn't have had to leave my father. I know if I speak, I may just vomit all over the computer so I let Steve and Natasha do the talking and I listen—we _all _listen—in horror as Arnim Zola tells us things that cannot be true. How HYDRA was never destroyed by Steve and the Howling Commandos. How HYDRA managed to survive, just by a small amount, and how Zola joined SHIELD and, like an parasite, began to re-grow HYDRA from within SHIELD.

"No one _ever _found out about HYDRA?" Natasha demands, her face bloodless. "No one at SHIELD ever suspected this?"

"Ve vere very careful, Agent Romanoff," says Zola. He lets out a gleeful-sounding laugh and suddenly I can't stand it. The sound of his smug laughter—it's too much. I slam my fist outwards and his computer screen blows backwards, hitting the floor and shattering. He's gone. I stand there, breathing heavily, knowing deep down I've acted rashly—but I don't care. I needed to shut him up, and I've done it, haven't I? He's g—

"Anyvay," comes his voice and with horror, I realize he's materialized on a second screen, on one of the computers that's right next to Natasha. He sounds a bit put off at being blasted in the face. Good. "Now you know how HYDRA came to be…"

"But what was the point of all this?" demands Natasha. "Why—what has HYDRA been _doing _all these years?"

"Do you _really _want to know, Agent Romanoff?" he asks slyly.

"Listen, you little motherf—" I start furiously but Steve jabs his elbow into my side. Ow, dammit, that hurt! I bend over, wincing, and Zola chooses to pertly ignore my outburst and proceed to basically say the worst thing I have ever heard in my already-horrible life: that _HYDRA _is the cause behind most of the world's wars, uprisings, genocides, assassinations, and misery…all so that eventually, when the modern-day HYDRA steps into the world to control it, people will be so sick of the chaos that they'll willingly submit.

"And is…is HYDRA the ones who kidnapped me?" I ask hoarsely. I know the answer—of course I do—but I need to hear it from this smug, fat little piece of garbage to cement it.

"But, of course, Miss Marsden!" he says. "Your powers vere unprecedented. Ve had to have you."

"The world will never allow this to happen," Steve says furiously, referring to HYDRA's neat little plan for world domination. "SHIELD will never let this happen."

"But, Captain, SHIELD—and the world—already _have _let it happen!" Zola says gleefully, smiling. "People like Nick Fury are already dead, clearing our path. Project Insight—"

"What?" Natasha asks sharply at the same time Steve demands, "What about it?"

"On that flash drive, there is an algorithm," says Zola. I can hear from his tone that he's only too happy to explain everything to us. This is usually the downfall of most bad guys—wasting time giving long-winded speeches and explaining _everything _to the hero, who then uses the knowledge against the bad guy—but I can tell that Zola is too thirsty to show off his amazing intellect and sneakiness to care much. I mean, the guy's a _computer_. Hasn't got much to lose, has he? And I thought _I_ had a pathetic existence. "I wrote it myself," he says. "There never vas anyone more brilliant than me. I received a terminal diagnosis in the seventies. Science could not save my body, but my mind—ah, my mind, that vas worth saving. So you see this entire room around you? This is thousands and thousands of feet of memories, thoughts, brain activity… You are standing _in my mind_."

"Yeah, yeah, we get it, you're a huge smarty-pants," I snap. "Get back to Project Insight." I have no idea what it is but from the way Natasha and Steve paled at the mention of it, it's something important, I can tell.

"Yes, anyvay," he says. "That algorithm allows the helicarriers involved in Project Insight to be used to HYDRA's advantage."

"And just what is HYDRA's advantage?" Steve asks through clenched teeth. His fists are clenched too and he's breathing heavily, and I admit: the dude looks scary. Way more intimidating than I probably looked with _my _teeth and fists clenched. Again, unfair.

"Those helicarriers vill be used to target and take out any, and all, persons who pose a threat to HYDRA and HYDRA's new world," says Zola, smirking. "People like Tony Stark, Bruce Banner—you two know them, eh? And thousands and thousands more like them. Project Insight vill be able to scratch them off the list, thousands at a time. No resistance. No fighting. Millions vill have to die, of course, but that is vat is necessary for a new vorld."

"I won't let this happen," Steve growls. "We still have time to stop this."

"Unfortunately," says Zola delicately, "you do not. You see, vhile we have been talking, I have been stalling you! You vill not live to see another day. My apologies, Captain…"

"Steve," says Natasha urgently, staring at the device she was holding earlier in alarm. "We have a problem. Missile headed at us—we have about fifteen seconds."

We turn just as huge metal doors begin to close in front of the elevators. Steve quickly hurls his shield at them in an effort to lodge it in between the doors and stop them—but no cigar. The doors shut too quickly and the shield ricochets off of them and flies back to Steve, who catches it. "This way!" he yells. He grabs both of our arms and we run to a large metal gate on the floor. I can hear a shrieking, rumbling roar building outside the building as something heads towards us—the walls are shaking and Zola's maniacal, buzzlike laughter is ringing out behind us—Steve rips the grate off from the floor and we all tumble in—

And the world explodes in fire. I crouch on the ground, shielding my head with one arm, my other arm thrown around Natasha's neck, who is crouching next to me, and Steve kneels over both of us, trying to hold the shield above all of us to deflect huge pieces of falling rock as the ceiling caves in on us. There's a shrieking, ripping roar all around us, as if a train and Category 5 tornado have decided to mate and blasts of unbelievable heat slam into us in waves, making me feel like I'm being cooked alive. I can't even fathom trying to hold my hands up and hover falling chunks of cement off of us but I try anyway, sticking my hands up into the rolling blasts of heat. Blisters form on the backs of my hands and I can't help but let out a scream of pain and exhaustion as I screw my eyes shut and try to _force _myself to hold rocks off us. My scream is lost in the explosion, however. The power ripping out of me is making me feel like someone is vacuuming my guts out. The rocks and fire crush us and it feels like the world is _literally_ ending—

And then the deafening noise stops. There's smoke and steam rising from the earth all around us, which is fitting, considering we've all been practically cooked alive, and I see that Natasha's passed out, a gash on her forehead. Something hit her. "We need to go," I choke out, spitting out a mouthful of ash. Steve grabs Natasha in her arms and hauls her up, climbing up over the precarious piles of burning-hot, huge chunks of cement that lay all around us and have fallen in with us. I grab his shield and scamper after him, thankful that I'm so nimble and quick. I can already see helicopters sweeping blinding white lights approaching at breakneck speed so Steve and I run as fast as I think we've ever run in our lives, vanishing into the dark to get back to our car and escape this mess.

* * *

Rumlow hit the ground running, after leaping out of the helicopter as it hovered fifteen feet above ground, tilting slightly to allow the strike agents to silently leap out in succession. Nearby two other helicopters were doing the same thing. Hot air blasted into his eyes as he ran, partly from the helicopter and mostly from the missile blast and the air around them was sweltering hot, dust and smoke burning his eyes—but Rumlow felt alive. This was what he lived for, to be in the moment, to be in the thick of the action, doing what he needed to to make HYDRA proud of him. His pulse raced and seemed to sing in response to what was sure to have been an effective kill. He didn't deny that the death of Captain America would be slightly depressing to him—he had always looked up to him, as a child—but the man had needed to be taken out for the greater good and that was all that mattered. HYDRA was all about the greater good and Rumlow respected that so much. It made so much sense to him. The reason the world was in shambles now was because people were too politically correct and were too afraid of offending certain groups to ever make great changes. Well—HYDRA wasn't afraid to cross people to change the world.

And as for the death of Black Widow—well, Rumlow would be glad that the bitch was dead. It had always rankled him that she had been given priority status over him, just because she was Fury's _favorite_. He was stronger (in his opinion) and he was tougher (again, in his opinion). He had never made his dislike for the woman known but he had sometimes gotten the feeling that the woman had known. There'd always been an amused but cold glint in her eyes during their rare dealings and this discomfited him and made him hate her even _more_.

As for the young one, the one Pierce wanted alive… Well, mistakes happened, Rumlow thought to himself grimly. He knew Pierce had wanted the girl alive but her death had been unavoidable. There had been no way to separate the girl—what was her name? Victoria Marsden—from the other two and it had been such a perfect opportunity to strike out the Captain and the Widow in one go. He knew Pierce would be disheartened at the Marsden girl's death but knew that, in the long run, her death paled in comparison to what they had achieved. The Captain had been one of the biggest threats against them. The other threats, of course, were the other Avengers—but seeing as how Thor was long gone and Banner, Stark, and Barton were all going to be wiped off the planet in the next twenty four hours… Well, HYDRA's position was looking very secure indeed.

He leaped down from the rocks, scanning for any signs of their bodies. He knew he wouldn't find perfectly intact bodies—but he'd find charred bodies. The blast hadn't been strong enough to completely obliterate them. He and his team quickly swept the entire blast area with their flashlights and the longer that they searched without one of his men shouting his name, the more Rumlow began to feel a bit anxious and prickly. Where were their goddamn bodies? Where could they possibly have hidden themselves, that—

He spotted a deep rectangular type of pit in the ground and leaped down into it, looking around. They could have tried to hide in here… He didn't find any bodies but his blood froze when he spotted footprints. There were two pairs, one large pair that obviously belonged to a man, and one that was much smaller. And it was obvious that they had been freshly made _after _the blast.

Cursing to himself, Rumlow stood up and kicked a cement chunk near him in anger, letting out a string of filthy curses. When Pierce heard about this…he'd be furious. Sighing and gritting his teeth, Rumlow resigned himself to the fact that he was in deep shit and yanked out his walkie talkie, feeling disgusted with himself and more furious at the fact that they had escaped, _again_. This was that stupid girl's doing, he knew it. He'd witnessed the Marsden girl's powers in the elevator and hadn't had time to attack her before Rogers knocked him out—but he knew now. She must have had some hand in saving them. He would have killed her if Pierce didn't want them to save her. He jabbed a button on his walkie talkie and then snarled, "Call in the asset."


	8. Chapter 8

I don't know how we make it out of there, with search helicopters hovering around, but we do. We dump Natasha unceremoniously on the back seat (sorry, Agent Romanoff) and then I throw myself into the shotgun seat as Steve wildly reverses and we peel out of there. My door's hanging open for the first few seconds but we're more focused on getting the hell _out of there _than safety. I slam my door shut only when we seem to be safely away, merging back onto a normal highway and getting lost among the other night drivers.

My heart—which has been pounding—seems to be slowing down and the sweat all over my body has turned icy cold due to the AC which started blasting the minute we got into the car. I reach over and shut it off and Steve doesn't object. Funnily enough, I think both of us have had enough of being freezing cold to last us ten more lifetimes. He weaves expertly between cars, trying to put as much distance in between us and the blast site, but eventually I sharply say, "Slow down, otherwise we're going to get arrested." I'm not really in the mood to bite another police officer. He slows down to the normal speed limit. I keep checking over our shoulder but—and it's amazing but there it is—I think we've done it. We've escaped. They don't know what car we're driving (I think) so…

"I think we should be fine," I say in a low voice.

"Hopefully," mutters Steve.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Back to D.C.," he replies. "To the only other person I can trust right now." He zips his lips after that and I'm only too happy to buckle my seatbelt and stare out my window. I'm brutally exhausted. How much worse can this adventure get? I've been dancing out of death's grasp so far but I'm a _terrible _dancer—seriously, I have _three _left feet, that's how bad I am—and I don't think I can avoid dying for much longer. Not when the Grim Reaper is so obviously interested in me. Jeez, what happened to asking a girl out and presenting her with some flowers?

Steve and I are silent but at one point during the drive, I _think _he tries to start something emotional. He says, "Victoria—" and my shoulders stiffen. I've been facing the window, my eyes shut in an attempt to try and rest, but I slowly open them a crack and slide my eyes to the left to sneakily look at him. He's not looking at me. He's staring straight ahead but his knuckles are white again and—dear god, are there _tears _in his eyes? I can't quite see from this angle. I can't deal with emotions on top of everything else right now so I quickly shut my eyes again and try to deepen my breathing, pretending like I'm asleep. I don't know if he falls for it but he doesn't say anything else.

I actually _do _fall asleep, however. What can I say? A day of being attacked can really exhaust a young lady. I suppose I should feel sort of bad, making Steve drive this whole way—he must be tired too—but first of all, I don't know how to drive, and second of all, he's a super-soldier. He can handle it. Selfish of me, I know, but I don't have extra reserves of uber-strength in my body like he does. Just a wiry will and a sassy mouth—but those don't keep my energy running like his synthetic strength does.

When I come to, it's dark but I can see the first rays of dawn poking through the sky. We've driven through the night. Why? That's too many hours. I turn to Steve and question him and he tells me that he's been taking lesser known roads, not major highways. "It takes longer," he says, "but major highways are easier to get caught on. All they need is a chopper to fly down the length of one and they'll get us. We can't afford that."

I look back at Natasha, laying on the seat. She's still knocked out and there's dried blood on her forehead. "We need to patch her up," I say. "Is this person you trust a nurse or doctor?"

"Uh, no," says Steve. "But he'll be able to help, trust me. I think," he adds in a mutter so low that I'm not sure if I'm supposed to have heard it or not.

I sit back in my seat, rubbing my eyes and trying not to focus on my aching stomach. I think back to the blast, the way I held my hands up and power seemed to surge out of me. It's left me bone-tired—and yet, at the same time, there's this greedy sucking feeling inside of me. Like…like using that much power has awoken something in me that yearns to use even _more _power. A bit alarming, actually. "Did I help keep any falling debris off of us?" I ask Steve. "With my powers, I mean."

He glances at me and then quietly says, "You did. You managed to deflect one really large piece. Amazing, actually."

"Thank you," I say, feeling a bit smug. See? He may be Captain America and she may be Black Widow, but I'm not totally useless. I'm—

"Not doing that again, though," continues Steve.

"Excuse me?" I say, not sure if I've heard him right.

"I saw how much using your power exhausted you," he says and a concerned look has come across his face. "You shouldn't do that again. We can all handle ourselves without you hurting yourself."

My temper flares to life. I hate that stupid concerned look on his face. Who is _he _to care about me? And really, we can "handle" ourselves with my powers? Well, excuse me, but I think my powers just saved all of our butts! Or—well, _part _of our butts, anyway, since Steve's shield also did save us. "Fortunately for me, Steve," I say icily, "your opinion is of no relevance to me and I don't have to listen to you. So thanks, but no thanks, on the advice. I'm gonna use my powers."

"Victoria, it's _dangerous_," he says. "You'll only get yourself knocked unconscious or something! Look at what using this much did to you!"

"That was only because I was also under a missile attack," I snap. "The heat waves probably contributed. Why the hell do you care, anyway? Step off. Now."

"Why the hell do I care—?" he splutters. "Because—because—because I _care_ about you! What the hell do you even mean? You're—you're one of my best friends! I don't understand why you keep acting like I'm the enemy!"

I don't either. Or—I do and I don't. It's complicated. "I don't want to talk about this anymore," I say rudely, turning away from him—but he grabs my arm and yanks me around to face him. Not _roughly_, but not super gently either.

"Victoria, what is _wrong _with you?" he demands. "You were never this mean before. I understand that the things you went through—being kidnapped, frozen, beat, being on the street—I can never understand th—"

"That's right!" I say, my voice getting a bit shrill with anger. "You can _never _understand! It's easy for you, Captain I'm Such a _Hero_, you were only _frozen _for a few decades! Not forcibly frozen and woken up and tested and prodded and beaten! You haven't been through anything! And what's more, you _chose _to kill yourself! You _chose _to fly your stupid plane into that stupid ice and die! You CHOSE to leave me beh—" I break off suddenly, confused at myself for what I'm revealing to himself and to my own self. I glance at Steve and he's staring at me as much as he can allow, what with driving and all, and he looks confused but also like something is dawning on him. Oh no. He looks like he's just realized something and it's making him feel emotions.

"Victoria—" he says and you can tell from his tone that he's about to Say Something Major, and I feel like throwing myself into oncoming traffic to escape talking about what I've just accidentally let slip—

Suddenly Natasha lets out a loud groan and mumbles, "Wherewegoin'?" in a slurred voice and I could kiss her, that's how grateful I am. Perfect timing, Agent Romanoff. I'm so relieved that in fact, I promise myself I _will _give her a hug when we reach this trusted person's house. Never has someone's timing been so perfect. I dart a glance at Steve. He looks disappointed, like he can't speak now that Natasha's awake. Thank you Lord.

I turn back to face Natasha, who's sitting up and rubbing her forehead now, looking as cranky as a caged lion. "Where are we going?" she growls.

"To a friend," Steve replies.

"You have friends?" she demands.

"Whoa, harsh," I say, rising my eyebrows.

"No, it's true," Steve says shortly. "I have no friends. Except this person."

There's a moment of pained silence as the implication of what he's just said hits me like a blow to my stomach. Heat creeps up my neck and I look down at my hands. What did I expect? I've been treating him like garbage. He has every right to divorce whatever friendship we had. This is what I wanted, isn't it? For him to stop treating me like his close friend? So then…why do I feel so terrible?

I look back at Natasha and oddly enough, she's _also _staring at Steve with an expression that looks almost…upset. But then she catches me looking and the Ice Queen is back, emotions sliding off her face. Who _is _this woman? She's even more elusive than me. Way more elusive, in fact. "Well, hurry up," she grumbles. "Damn. My head hurts and I'm starving. And I've just realized that—" She stops and lets out an angry, sharp breath through her nostrils, like an enraged bull. Or an angry mother.

Or an enraged bull mother. Terrifying.

"We're close now," says Steve. "Just…two more hours."

"Okay, stop for McDonald's drive-thru," says Natasha.

"Natasha, no."

"Rogers. I'm going to die of hunger."

"You're telling _me_," I say. "I'm the starving homeless street kid here. I'd eat _Steve _right now if he were roasting on a spit."

"Yeah, Cap, think of the starving homeless person," says Natasha.

"Natasha, no."

And that's the end of it. Natasha's clearly too exhausted to keep arguing so she leans back with a groan. I begin digging through the glove box and find a granola bar. My stomach lets out a sound that sounds vaguely like a dying cow and my mouth waters. I think even a little bit of drool falls out of my mouth. Disgusting. But…there's an injured woman back there. So I roll my eyes at my selflessness—honestly, I deserve an award—and toss the granola bar at her, saying, "Head's up."

Her eyes are closed but she catches it anyway, without even looking. Catlike reflexes, this one. She should be called the Black Cat instead. "Thanks, Fizz," she says, ripping it open.

This is a thank you for her greatly-timed interruption. I will never again part with food for someone else's sake. Not even to be a selfless angel. Nope. Food and me, we have a relationship that's too sacred and important for that. I spend the next two hours daydreaming about all the different types of food I would eat if I had money and the means to get them all…

"We're here," Steve suddenly announces, waking me from my fantasies about cheese fries. I blink, rub my eyes, and sit up. Dawn has broken and the sun has climbed high in the sky. It's early morning. Most people are still asleep right now; will this trusted friend be awake? Steve pulls into a driveway that leads to a separate garage slightly behind a small cream-colored house.

"It's about time," grumbles Natasha. "I feel disgusting."

"You smell disgusting too," I add helpfully.

She rolls her eyes. "Thanks, Fizzy. Likewise."

We all stumble from the car, complaining of various problems. Exhaustion, pain, hunger. The whole trifecta. We go up to the house's front door and I look around nervously, hoping no nosy neighbors have spotted us—but no, the blinds on every house nearby are still shut. No one sane is up.

Well, except for this trusted friend, who promptly opens the door after Steve knocks. He stares at us and we stare back. He's a tall, well-built, broad-shouldered man. Black skin, blinding white teeth that kind of almost make my eyes water, and a very surprised expression on his face. He's also clutching a large bottle of orange juice. I could totally attack him for that orange juice right now and I'd be justified. I'm so hungry.

I can't say I blame him for his surprised expression. He's looking at Captain America, a beautiful and cranky redhead, and a scowling young lady who's probably drooling a little. "We need your help, Sam," is how Steve chooses to politely start.

"Everyone we know is trying to kill us," Natasha interrupts.

"And we're starving," I add shortly.

Steve looks pained at our interruptions. Sorry, cowboy, manners just don't cut it now. Normally I like well-mannered people but this situation is an exception. This Sam looks very surprised but he immediately opens the door and ushers us inside, locking it after us and dropping the blinds, snapping them shut. Good man.

"This," he says, "is kind of weird—but okay. Sure. You can lay low here while…um…whatever it is that's going on passes?"

"Can I use your shower?" Natasha asks.

"Can I use your fridge?" I ask.

Steve looks like he wants to strangle us. We must sound like heathens.

Sam still looks a bit shell-shocked but he chuckles and I can tell he has a good sense of humor. You'd have to, to laugh in this weird situation. "Sure thing," he says. He shows Natasha the bathroom connected to his bedroom and hands her some guest towels. Then he shows me the guest bathroom. It has no shower but it has a sink. I wash my wash—I'll shower later—and smooth my hair back into a fresh pony. I find a tube of toothpaste and do my best to vigorously clean my teeth using toothpaste squirted onto my fingers. Gross, I know, but it's the best I can do in the circumstances. I also find some mouthwash and carefully tilt the bottle into my mouth, taking care to never actually _touch _the bottle (it's just not polite) and gargle until my breath is spearminty fresh. Then I head out to the kitchen.

"Where's Steve?" I ask Sam. He points wordlessly to the bedroom, which we can see from the kitchen. The sounds of the shower are still running so Natasha's still in there and Steve lays on Sam's bed, an arm thrown across his eyes. He's napping or something. I won't disturb him. I turn back to Sam and give him a look, raising an eyebrow. "Now, listen," I say. "I don't mean to be rude. But I'm a starving homeless kid—"

"You know, you're really milking this homeless kid thing for all you've got," calls Steve from the room without lifting the arm from his eyes.

"—and I think I'm going to die if I don't get something to eat," I finish pleasantly, ignoring the urge to punch Steve.

Sam looks a bit alarmed but then he shrugs and says, "Don't worry, I got you, girl. You eat omelettes?"

"I'd eat a buttered shoe right now," I say. I'm telling the truth too. Leather shoe could probably taste good with the right seasoning. I mean, leather comes from a cow and meat comes from a cow, so the two things can't be that different, right?

Okay, I need to never try to reason when I'm hungry. I can't believe I'm thinking about eating shoes.

"Uh, don't do that," says Sam, chuckling. "One cheese omelette coming right up, _minus _the buttered shoe." He slides a plate with a steaming omelette onto my plate and then sets down a glass of orange juice and a plate of buttered toast. I only pause to thank him before I dive into the food like a hyena. I hope he's looking away because I'm eating so fast it's embarrassing. I'm going to have gut ache later on. Ow—actually, I'm having it right now. But I can't stop eating because my stomach is still dying of hunger.

As I eat, Sam sits next to me and silently watches us all as we do the mundane things everyone does—but looking ten times more suspicious and weird. Natasha gets out of the bathroom, wearing her skinny jeans and a black tank top, towel drying her hair, and Steve vanishes into the bathroom. He's quicker at showering; only takes him five minutes before he steps out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a different towel, wearing pants and a white tank top. I think a piece of toast falls out of my open mouth as I stare, slack jawed, at his physique. I'm not checking him out—but _damn_, Steve's changed. He's like some sort of perfect male model. My cheeks feel a bit hot and I hastily take a huge swig of orange juice, ignoring Sam, who's grinning a little cheekily at me as if he knows what I've been thinking.

I'm done so I get up and rinse my plates and glass out in the sink, quickly drying them with a washcloth by the sink and setting them in the drying rack. I turn around and Sam says, "You didn't have to do that," in a surprised voice, gesturing to me washing the dishes. "You're a guest."

"Of course I did," I say, equally surprised. "It's only polite."

"Most people wouldn't have done that," he says.

_Most people aren't from the 1930's_. But I don't say this out loud, only murmur, "Thanks again," and then head to the bedroom. Natasha is sitting on the bed, still drying her hair, and Steve is sitting in front of her on a chair. They're locked in a serious conversation and I don't want to intrude so I lean against the doorway, crossing my arms. When am I ever going to stop being the third wheel? Are some people just _born _to be intruders, to be third wheels…to never fit in?

I listen as Natasha talks about being disillusioned now that we know that SHIELD's essentially just a farce and that HYDRA's been pulling the strings all along. I know how she feels. Not that I've ever been betrayed this badly—but I know what it feels like to have the rug yanked out from under you. To have your world ruined in a moment. That was me when I realized Bucky and Steve weren't ever coming back from war.

"Why don't you look more upset?" Natasha asks Steve. "You look pretty chipper for a guy who's just realized he died for nothing."

Steve leans back in his chair and chuckles slightly, though he doesn't look happy. "I guess I just like to know who I'm dealing with."

"Can I ask you something?" Natasha asks. "And be totally honest with me."

"Shoot," says Steve.

"If it were me in the position you were in earlier—if it were down to me to save your life—would you trust me to do it?" Her face is uncharacteristically serious as her forest green eyes search his face.

"I would now," Steve says and none of us miss the slight emphasis on the word _now_. Then he smiles. "And I'm always honest."

"Are we friends, Steve?" she asks quietly.

He raises his eyebrows but nods, smiling slightly. "I think we are."

I'm officially intruding. I'm sure both of them have noticed me silently leaning in the doorway—how could they not, with their super senses?—but neither of them have acknowledged me. I turn away, knowing this is a private moment. I've gotten what I wanted and pushed Steve further away than before. And Natasha is now his friend.

Sam appears in the doorway and says, "I've made breakfast…if, you know, you eat that sort of thing."

Both Steve and Natasha chuckle and get up and head to the kitchen. I sit at one head of the table, back facing the front door, and tilt back on two legs before I realize that's rude because I may break his chairs. I slam to the ground and pull my knees up criss-cross style, folding my arms as well. Steve and Natasha shovel down breakfast while giving Sam the really quick version of what's happened so far. Sam looks surprised at several parts—mostly when he finds out SHIELD is majorly compromised—but he takes most of it in so much stride that I can't help but feel like he must have some sort of physical job. Something in combat or something with the government. A regular civilian wouldn't be privy to the details Steve and Natasha are spilling to him, nor would a normal civilian take them so well.

When they're done, Natasha finally asks, "Who at SHIELD would have enough clearance to order a missile attack?"

"Alexander Pierce," I blurt. Everyone turns to stare at me and I sense they're looking for an explanation. I have the feeling that saying, "He has creepy eyes," probably isn't going to fly.

But surprisingly, I don't need to say anything because Steve agrees. "It was him," he says. "He all but threatened me after Fury died. Something's wrong with him."

"Think he's HYDRA?" Sam asks.

"Most likely," says Steve.

Suddenly, it hits me. "It is Alexander Pierce," I say slowly. "My old organization is after me, right? Well, now we know it's been HYDRA this whole time. And…and Fury and I ran into Pierce before we left the Triskelion. He _saw _me and he looked at me like—like I belonged to him. I swear I've never seen eyes like his… He ordered that attack on Fury and I while we were driving because he _knew_, the second he saw me with Fury, that Fury knew what he was up to."

"The Winter Soldier blew your car up…" Steve says slowly.

"And Pierce controls the Winter Soldier," I finish. "It makes sense. HYDRA has caused the majority of the world's chaos in the past hundred years and the Winter Soldier is credited with dozens of kills over the last fifty years, right, Natasha?"

"Yes," she says grimly.

"My only problem is…he didn't look old," I say, frowning. "At _all_. How can he be fifty years old and look…well, _not _fifty?"

Natasha and Steve stare at me for a minute as if I'm nuts and I defensively ask, "What?"

"Uh, hello, Miss I'm Super Old But Look Youthful As Hell," says Natasha. "We currently have _two _people in the room who are definitely over the age of fifty and don't look fifty."

"Wait, _you're _like Captain America too?" Sam demands, pointing at me. "What?" He doesn't know my personal part of the story yet.

I ignore Sam and dive right into what Natasha is implying. "So the Winter Soldier…is another human who's been frozen in cryogenesis," I say. This is freaking incredible. HYDRA is just waltzing around freezing humans and using them for their own gain. At this rate, they can build armies that live for _centuries_. They'd be unbeatable.

"I wonder what poor bastard they froze to make him," murmurs Natasha. "How many people have they done this to over the past century? This is unbelievable. Fury's never going to—" She breaks off, her face tightening slightly. It's obvious she forgot for a moment that Fury is dead. Again, her face is like the face of a little girl who's lost the parent she runs to when she has news to share.

"Well, whoever he is, he's fast, strong, and has a metal arm," says Steve grimly. "If he comes after us again, we need to be prepared. We need _answers _on the details of how Project Insight is going down. But who do we ask…?"

"Hold up," says Natasha, frowning. "On the Lemurian Star, with the hostages…now that I'm thinking…most of those hostages were just common SHIELD scientists. But there was one higher-up on the boat, someone who's with Pierce a lot." She gives Steve a knowing look. "You know who it is, Steve."

"Jasper Sitwell!" exclaims Steve, slamming his hand down onto the table so hard the table shakes.

"Dude," Sam says weakly. "Please. It's my grandmother's hand-polished oak."

None of what Steve or Natasha are saying is making any sense to me, so I do what I always do when this happens: I just sort of tune out and get lost in my own mind. Is it irresponsible and stupid? Yes. Am I missing vital information? Probably. But I'm already confused enough eight times out of ten in this world, I don't need _extra _information that makes no sense to me. I only snap to attention when Sam loudly says, "I'm in."

"Sam—I can't ask you to get back in action," Steve says regretfully. Ah, so I was right. Sam is involved in combat somehow, most likely the army. Er, he _was_ in the army, it seems. Not anymore. I can't help but feel a bit thankful. What is up with men and their incessant need to get themselves killed for pointless wars? I've never seen the point.

"Dude, Captain America needs my help," Sam says and he's grinning excitedly, like a little boy at a carnival. "There's no better reason to get back into the game."

"But how do we get at Sitwell?" Natasha wonders.

"I think I have a way," Sam says after a pause. "Wait here." He disappears to his room and we hear him throwing things out of drawers. I wince as something hits the wall and apparently shatters. He comes back out and slaps a file folder in front of Steve. "I used these when I was in service," he says quietly.

Natasha and I crowd around Steve as he flips the file open. I can't help but gasp. It's a photo of a man wearing a pair of huge mechanical, man-made wings. They look incredibly powerful and amazingly cool. No way. I jab the photo and demand, "Do these actually work?"

"Hell yeah," says Sam.

"How much do they cost?" I ask speculatively, probably a dreamy look coming into my eyes.

Sam laughs. "You're not going to be able to purchase those on any legal market. Those are military-grade weapons."

"Where do we find them?" Steve asks.

"They're locked in a storage facility with fifteen-feet walls all around and armed guards, a few miles away," says Sam.

Steve and Natasha exchange looks and they both grin at each other. "Not a problem." Show offs.

"I'm gonna kick it back here, if you don't mind," I say.

Steve looks at me, surprised, and then he looks suspicious. "Are you thinking of running off?"

I roll my eyes. My god, he's obtuse. I just don't want to be in a car with him and Natasha alone. It'll be too awkward, considering what a mess I've made of things. "No, Steve," I say, "I'm not _running off_. But if you're getting the wings and bringing them back, then no need for me to go, right? I'm exhausted. Besides," I add nastily, "you can do it without my help…right? You don't need me." I'm sorry, I know it's so stupid and immature of me, but his words still smart.

Natasha raises an eyebrow and Sam looks a little like _Whoa, girl, what's going on? _but Steve takes a deep breath, looking like he's torn between apologizing and ripping my head off—and then he says, "Fine, you're right. It's a quick mission, we don't need three."

"You never did," I murmur.

"What?" he asks sharply.

"Nothing," I say innocently.

"You stay here with Sam," he says. "We'll be back soon." He and Natasha gear up—Sam has some things stored in his house (which seems kind of illegal but then, what do I know or care? I've broken plenty of laws in the past four years)—and then they head out after Sam tells them the location of the wings. I peek through the blinds and watch them drive off. And then there's silence.

"So…" Sam says awkwardly.

"Can I use your shower?" I ask. They're gone and I have time. May as well make myself look and smell good for the next time someone tries to kill me. At least I'll go to my grave smelling squeaky clean. Sam gives me a new towel and I lock myself in the bathroom and take a long hot shower. Ha. I get to take my time with the hot water, unlike the other two. I scrub myself clean and then wrap a towel around myself and look at my clothes. At this point…they're _really _destroyed. They're charred, ripped, and all around filthy. This won't do. I open the door a crack and yell, "SAM!"

"What?" He comes rushing into the room. "What's wrong?"

"Uh, this is awkward," I say, "but my clothes are beyond ruined. Do you have _anything _I can wear?"

"I'm not a teenage girl," he says dubiously.

"I'm twenty," I snap. "And," I add, in a nicer voice, "I'll seriously take anything that vaguely fits."

"Okay—okay, I think I got something," he says. "Wait a few minutes while I dig it up."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm standing in front of the mirror, examining my appearance. I'm wearing a really baggy plain black t-shirt that belongs to Sam and a pair of women's denim capris that are actually a little too loose on me—I'm pretty slender—but Sam's given me a belt so they fit neatly on my waist. I look kind of grunge or something, what with the bruises, cuts, and scrapes on my arms and face, damp hair smoothed down my back, but I look alright. My hair reaches the back of my elbows and suddenly I have a vision of it getting caught in the engine of an airplane or something and getting me killed. It's too long and annoying. I rifle through the drawers and—ah, perfect. Here we go. A pair of scissors. I lean over the sink, furiously snipping away until I've reached my end result.

My hair now reaches just past my shoulders and looks like someone chopped it with a dull spoon. It's all jagged and uneven but hey, it'll go with my grunge look, right? I'll look hobo-rebel chic and maybe I'll start a new fashion trend or something. I shrug on my royal blue hoodie, clean up the bathroom and then exit, tying my Converse high tops back on. Thank god these babies have survived the fight so far.

When Sam sees my hair, he chokes for a moment and then shakes his head. "You know what? I'm not even going to ask."

"Good call," I say.

He's cleaned up the kitchen so I take a seat at the table and he does the same. We're silent for a moment and then he says, "So…what did the Black Widow mean, when she said you were like Cap? You were frozen…?"

I look at Sam. "I don't know you," I state.

He holds out his hand. "Sam Wilson at your service. Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am." His words remind me of something a boy in the 1930's would say.

I smile, despite myself. "My name is Victoria Marsden, but I've been known to be called Fizzy while on the streets." I shake his hand.

"Have you been on the streets a lot?"

"For the past four years, I've been homeless," I say. It's obvious Sam is thoroughly bewildered by what I'm saying. None of it makes sense to him and why would it? This isn't his world. He's just a nice, normal fellow who's been through hardships—but _normal _human hardships. HYDRA, cryogenesis…this must all sound like a bad science fiction novel to him. But then again, he's a part of this now. He's been introduced to us all and he's going to help. What do I have to lose by telling him about me?

Besides, it's not as if all of SHIELD and HYDRA don't know about me now. I may as well just sent out notices about myself and my life story to every major news station in the country next.

"So, do you wanna hear my story?" I ask. "It's pretty depressing."

"I think I can handle it," says Sam.

So I tell him. Sam's an amazing person to tell stories to, to be honest. He has all the right reactions and they're so exaggerated that I can't help but chuckle even though nothing in my story is humorous at all. I talk and talk and talk and I'm uncomfortable the whole time because I'm still not used to telling people about Victoria Marsden—but I'm in too deep to back out now. So I keep babbling until a whole hour and a half has passed and he basically knows it all.

Well, a condensed version of it anyway. If I told him every emotion and hardship I faced, we'd be sitting here for the next forty years. The funny thing is, I know Sam way less than Natasha and definitely less than Steve—but I feel like I've spilled more to him. Maybe it's the fact that he seems so easy-going and non-judgmental…or maybe it's the fact that he's a total stranger so even if he _does _judge, it won't matter as much…but he knows how terrible and alone I've felt through this whole ordeal more than Steve and Natasha do.

"You're right," he says when I'm done. "That _was_ depressing as hell. Not gonna lie. But…you know…what really matters? Is that we survive. I know, it sounds cliché, right? But it's true. Bad stuff happens. Terrible stuff. To really good people. But you made it, didn't you? Some people don't get to make it."

From his voice…I just know. He's lost someone. I don't want to pry—but not going to lie, I sort of want to pry. In a low voice, I ask, "Do you know someone who didn't make it?"

"Yeah," he says quietly. "My best friend, Riley. Went to war with me. Didn't make it out with me."

"I'm sorry," I say, and I really, really am. "I know how that is. You know, you just heard my story. I realized my two best friends weren't coming back from war. And I know that's not like being _in _a war with them, but—"

"You still feel the emptiness inside," Sam finishes. He chuckles to himself. "Yup. Never really goes away."

It doesn't. Because even though I have Steve back, it still doesn't feel like I do. Never mind Bucky…

"But like I said," he says in a more lighthearted tone. "You made it. You're a survivor. A badass. And that's the only thing that matters. You gotta keep going for the ones that can't. That's what I tell myself, anyway."

"That's a good motto to live by," I say. "Where did you meet Steve, anyway? He seems like an isolated guy, not really big on the socializing…" It's like he's become the old Victoria Marsden.

Sam chuckles to himself. "I was out jogging and we sort of had an impromptu race."

"I'm guessing he won," I say, grinning.

Sam laughs. "Let's just say he…ran circles around me and leave it at that. He's a good guy, though."

"I know," I mutter. "He's a big hero now."

Sam looks at me and says, "Well, he deserves it, doesn't it?"

"I don't really know," I admit. "I don't…I don't know much of what he's done."

Sam stared at me as if I've just said I don't know what peanut butter is. "But you told me you escaped _four _years ago. The New York invasion was two years ago. How do you…?"

"I mean, I _knew _when it was happening," I explain, "but I tried to ignore it. I try to ignore massive outbreaks of violence, unless I know I'm in immediate danger. I was too focused on staying alive on a day-to-day basis anyway. And…and I sort of knew there was a Captain America who was a hero or something. I saw the newspaper stands and costumes. But I thought they'd just propped up some random guy and named him Steve Rogers and made him become a new Captain America…"

"Wow, you were super in denial," Sam baldly states.

I was. I know it sounds weird now, considering what a big deal the Battle of New York ended up being—but I closed my eyes to every aspect of it. I closed my eyes every time I saw Captain America's colors. I turned around and walked away from any news about the man I thought was masquerading as a new Steve Rogers. I didn't want to know.

"You've had to do some tough stuff, haven't you?" Sam asks, watching me closely. "Being on the streets and all that. I've never been on the streets or anything…but I had a cousin. He wouldn't stay away from the bad crowd, the hardcore addicts. You know how some teenagers are, they just _won't _try to follow the right track. And he ended up on the streets and I watched for years while he struggled. He always refused to accept my help. And then one day he vanished. I don't know what happened to him."

"He's probably dead," I say tiredly, "and thrown in a gutter. Sorry. But that's what happens to junkies. I've seen people get their throats slit on the streets just for being in someone's way… There was this kid," I say suddenly. My breath hitches in my throat and I see Sam is listening closely. Why am I telling him this? I've never told anyone this, even though it haunts my nightmares on the odd nights that Steve and Bucky and my parents don't.

But then—I've never _had_ anyone to tell before.

"A boy," I say. "Short, skinny thing, blond…a weakling. The kind of kid who doesn't last long on the streets. I—I don't know why, but I started letting him hang around me. Actually, I _do _know why. He reminded me of Steve," I say glumly. "The old Steve. And I guess I missed Steve so I let this kid hang around me. His name was Will. I protected him, helped him get food. He didn't offer anything to me. In fact, he made me a walking target because I looked like a weakling with him by my side. But I let him stay. Until…" My eyes are burning now slightly. Are there chopped onions nearby? Yeah, probably. Sam did make omelettes.

"Until?" Sam prompts.

"Until Will did something stupid," I say. "He stole—something from this guy named Chaz. Big guy, _huge_ actually, and very tough and cruel. He controlled a few blocks, a pretty big…kingdom, you could say. And Will, I don't know how or _why_, stole something from him. So Chaz comes after us, right? And he finds us and I'm scared out of my mind. And I didn't even know if I could use my powers on him. And he tells me that he'll either kill both of us—or I could kill Will for him and he'd let me go free. And Chaz almost _never _offered people chances like that. I don't even know why he offered it to me in the first place. And I stared at Chaz and then I looked at Will and he just…he looked so _hopeful_ in his stupid little face. Like he just knew I'd never hurt him." My vision blurs when I remember his face: thin, pale, beaky. Messy blond hair falling into his eyes, watery blue eyes, timid. Stupid. Weak. The way he cowered behind me during fights, knowing I'd keep him safe.

My voice has dropped to a whisper now. "He didn't even see it coming when I attacked him. And then I just—_kept _hitting and hitting and hitting… There was so much blood when I was done. But I got to walk away free. And that helped spread my reputation to more people, which meant I got to live more peacefully. Except peace isn't exactly what my mind experienced after that." I look up at Sam and I can feel my hands tremble, my power roiling furiously inside me. "How do I…? How do I explain this to Steve? He thinks I'm different and I am. I've done horrible things. And he's so _good_."

"Correction," says Sam. "You did horrible things—to _survive_, Fizztoria. I was in a war, remember? I've done things no human should do to other human beings as well. Steve was in war, too. You think he's never killed anyone? But sometimes…you do what you gotta do. And maybe it's bad and it eats away at you—but none of us are angels. Our intentions _do _matter."

I smile a crooked smile at him and ask, "Hang on, did you just call me _Fizztoria_?"

"That I did," he says, grinning. "Funny, isn't it? I have an older sister _and _a younger sister, so I'm used to coming up with stupid nicknames."

"Thanks for listening to my story," I say awkwardly. I'm not really great at thanks. They're usually too emotional for me. "Not sure why you're so easy to talk to—"

"It's probably my handsome good looks," says Sam modestly.

"Right," I say, grinning. "Or—"

"Or my amazing story-listening abilities," he says.

"Or that, sure, sure," I say, laughing. I can't help it. He's so friendly and nice. I haven't met someone this open in a long time (bar Steve, who I've been rudely pushing away of my own immature will). Suddenly a wave of sleepiness crashes into my and my eyes flutter shut for a moment before I shake my head and wake myself back up. But no, Sam's caught it, and he says, "Alright, you look tired. Why don't you take a nap until Steve and Natasha come back?" Seeing my dubious expression, he adds, "The door has a lock on it."

"No—that's not what I meant!" I say (though it's nice that he's aware enough to try and make me comfortable by mentioning that). "I just…_don't _leave without me, okay?" I say in a rush.

"Why would we do that?" Sam asks.

I hesitate. Besides the fact that Steve doesn't want to endanger me…a small part of me is afraid I've hurt and upset him so much that he might just leave me behind for revenge. And as wily as I am, there's no way I'd be able to catch up to them, not being able to drive or anything like that. "Call it paranoia," I say. "Just _promise _me, okay? You won't leave without me." Because I swear to god, if they leave me behind, I'll pray to god they survive the coming battle—just so I can murder them _myself_.

"I promise," says Sam, still looking bewildered. "Scout's honor."

I collapse on Sam's bed and apparently spilling your life story and guts to someone can really take its toll on you because I fall asleep almost immediately, slipping into a dark and dreamless sleep for a rare change.

* * *

I'm woken by someone shaking my shoulder and saying, "Wake up, Fizzo."

I sit upright as quick as a whip, hands immediately tensed to either blast someone or strangle them, and Natasha takes a step back and laughs. "You need to relax," she says, forest green eyes glinting. "I'm not going to attack you in your sleep."

"You never know," I say, standing up. "Wait—_Fizzo_?" I demand. "What's up with all the random nicknames all of a sudden?"

Natasha raises her eyebrows and shrugs. She turns to leave but I grab her arm and say, "Natasha, wait!" She turns around slowly, one eyebrow arched, an expectant look on her face. I take a deep breath. If there's one thing I'm worse at than saying thanks…it's saying apologies. "About the first time we met," I say, rubbing my nose sheepishly. "About the…you know…"

"Bashing a steel pipe into my face?" she helpfully says.

"Right," I say. My cheeks are burning. Ugh. "About that…sorry. I mean, you totally deserved it at the time," I add, "acting suspicious and weird and all that. But I'm still sorry."

"It's fine," she says. "No permanent damage. Though if you'd broken my nose, I'd make you pay for it," she adds. I can't tell if she's joking or not.

I smile tentatively at her and then—oh, right. I've made a promise to myself, haven't I? Oh dear, this is going to be weird but I must do it. Before I can convince myself otherwise, I suddenly grab her in a huge hug. She freezes, clearly very stunned and probably a little horrified. I'm a little horrified too. Why? Why did I go through with this? But I promised myself I'd hug her for waking up at the right moment in the car and I keep my promises. So there you are, for a moment we're locked in the world's most awkward hug, my arms around her, her arms kind of awkwardly patting me on the back, both of us with probably terrible expressions (I know _my _expression is mortified, at least) and then I step back.

"Um," says Natasha slowly, "why…?"

"I owed you that," I say. "Don't ask why."

"Riiiiiight," she says, taking it in stride, the way she seems to do with everything. She even seems to have digested the fact that SHIELD is not what she thought it was. "Well…anyway. Now that _that's _done… Follow me." She leads me to the kitchen, where Steve and Sam are standing.

"Steve," I say rather stiffly to him.

"Victoria," he says politely.

"Did you get the wings?" I ask. "Show me!"

"Sorry, girl, they don't look cool until we actually use them." Sam holds up a large metal box with straps attached. I can't quite figure out what it is until I realize you wear it like a backpack and—oh, I see. The wings somehow expand from the boxlike shape. Then I suddenly notice a long and thin black gun on the table. It's glossy, gleaming, and looks deadly.

"Is that a sniper rifle?" I hiss.

"How do _you _know what a sniper rifle is?" Steve asks.

I roll my eyes. "It's 2014, Steve. I'm not _that _innocent anymore."

"We have a plan that involves this," says Natasha. "Everyone ready? We need to get going. I've hacked into Jasper Sitwell's phone—_terrible _security, by the way, his password is 'HYDRA'—"

Everyone snorts and I cough, "_Moron_," which elicits a grin from both Sam and Natasha.

"—and the meeting he's at is going to be ending in an hour," says Natasha, "so we need to get going to set this up. He's not going to be out in the open for long. We have a window of just about a few minutes to get him into our car. Fizzy, I have a job for you too. You're going to be on scare tactics. You'll need to use a bit of power—so…recharge yourself or whatever it is you need to do to be able to use it."

I have no idea what "scare tactics" specifically entails but it sounds like a ton of fun so I let a mischievous grin spread across my face and say, "I'll be ready." _Finally _I'll be able to do something, even if it isn't physical combat.

"Alright, let's take down HYDRA," says Steve seriously and then he turns and strides out the front door, shoulders squared. I squint after him. He even _exits _like a hero. Unbelievable.

* * *

**A/N: Apologies to anyone who thought we'd reach the bridge scene in this chapter! I thought we'd reach it as well…but I realized I kind of wanted Victoria to bond with Sam a little bit. Also, I apologize for the wordiness of this chapter, I had a LOT of dialogue and not a lot of action…but hey, next few chapters are mostly action-packed! Bucky's up on center stage next so here we go! Thank you for reading and review, review, review! I love reviews.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Good news! I've completed the first chapter of the sequel to **_**Heading Home**_**! I've missed those characters too much to stay away from them and I feel like Ari and Bucky still have stories left to be told. I'm still highly invested in Victoria's story, so this is going to be my top priority, but I'm heading back to Ari and Bucky when this story is completed. I think I'll do what I did last time and post the first chapter of the new story when I post the last chapter of this story. Cheers! Happy reading.**

* * *

Natasha explains the plan to me in the car on our way to nab this Jasper Sitwell character. I understand it well enough. I'm not integral to the plan—at least not in the ways that Steve, Natasha, and Sam are—but with no official combat training, this is the best they'll let me do. And it _will _help rattle Sitwell's nerves, Natasha assures me, and help me get some anger out. Alright, sounds like a plan. I definitely have some aggression I can take out on someone.

Sitwell's meeting is in a triad of beautiful buildings that look more like a set of hotels in the heart of D.C. I don't know the names of the buildings but it's not important than I do. We drop Natasha off behind the building across the street from Sitwell and she vanishes up the fire escape with the sniper rifle in a flash. I look around, afraid someone's seen her—but no, the general population is oblivious. Oh well, better for their sanity, I suppose. Sam slips out in the opposite direction Natasha does, but he goes easy. Cruise control, carefree. Hands in his pockets, grinning, saying, "What's up?" to a blonde lady he passes. I can't tell if it's the role he's playing or if it's just Sam.

Once Steve and I are sure Sam's gotten to his location—we're all wearing ear pieces to communicate (Natasha stole them from the warehouse as well; it seems as if she got a bit sticky fingered there, not that I blame her or anything)—Steve drives the SUV around the corner and we wait, engine on idle. I clamber into the backseat as commanded by Natasha, ready with a pair of handcuffs in my hand.

"Remember," says Steve. "Be flashy. Do stupid stuff. Scare him. Make him think you're deranged."

Shouldn't have to pretend too hard for _that _one.

We wait in silence. I can feel the tension between us but I ignore it. Now's definitely not the time for a talk. It doesn't take long, only ten minutes, but it kind of feels like eternity. Finally I see Sam and Sitwell walking down the street from behind us and I hiss, "Get ready."

I watch Sam and Sitwell approach. Sam is walking next to Sitwell and has an easy smile on his face. Anyone looking from a distance would just think that two buddies are out for a walk (albeit one buddy looks a bit constipated). But look closer and you see a different picture. Sam is next to Sitwell but is also slightly _behind _him; he's pressed a blade to Sitwell's back. Sitwell is smiling nervously—something Sam's clearly commanded him to do—but is sweating bullets and looks like he wants to use the bathroom in his pants. Ah, so he's the nervous type. Good. This'll make my job easier.

Sam yanks open the door and shoves Sitwell into the seat next to me. Quick as lightning I grab Sitwell's wrist and cuff him to _my _own wrist. He stares at me in alarm, clearly not expecting to see a petite young girl in the mix, and I grin widely at him, widening my eyes in a way that can only be described as _psycho_. "Who the hell are you?" he splutters before noticing Steve in the driver's seat. Then he groans. "Shit." Sam climbs into the back.

"Shit's right," I say, still grinning. The passenger door open and Natasha slips in, turning around to blow a Sitwell a kiss. "Hey Jasper," she says in a sultry voice. She catches sight of me and freezes for a second and I fight the urge to laugh. She didn't tell me to do this part—but I've done it anyway for special effect. I've rubbed my eyes all around with a dark eye pencil that I found in a pocket of the capris (I hope I don't get pink eye but since I've rubbed it all messily all around my eyes and not anywhere actually _near_ my inner rims—coordination was not necessary for this venture—I think I'll be okay) and I jabbed myself lightly in the eyes a few times to make my eyes watery and red. Then I poked a gash on my lip until it began to bleed again, trickling a stream of blood down my chin and smearing it all around. Basically, I look messed up.

"Who's this?" Sitwell demands. "Where are you taking me? Let me out right now!" He's trying to sound brave but his voice is quivering. No one answers him and I lean forward and snap my teeth at him and he jerks back, saying, "My god! What's wrong with you?"

I widen my eyes and stare at him, my mouth frozen in a wide open laugh like someone who's escaped from an insane asylum. "Don't you _recognize_ me, Jasper?" I gasp. "I was one of HYDRA's experiments gone wrong!" I'm making strange gasping sounds and I suddenly lean closer to his face and Sitwell lets out a yelp and smashes himself against the car door, trying to delicately push me away. "Don't you remember me?" I whimper. "HYDRA tried to create a shark-human hybreed! Unfortunately, I sort of lost my mind in the process." I let out a high-pitched giggle and let out another hitched gasp and dig my nails into his arms so hard I can tell I've drawn blood. Sitwell lets out a yell and I say, "But they got one thing right: I need human blood to survive. I can drain a whole human body in hours." I slowly lick the blood that's trickling down my chin, smearing it all around my mouth and Sitwell lets out a strangled moan. I hear a muffled snort coming from the back where Sam is and I admit—I'm having a hard time believing Sitwell is falling for this garbage. But according to Natasha, he's a very anxiety-prone and worrisome man. And it's true…he's eating this up. Dear god, I think he _actually _believes I'm going to drink his blood. His forehead is beaded with sweat and his eyes are wide with panic. I don't know whether to laugh or smack him for being so idiotic.

Steve pulls up the abandoned apartment complex fifteen minutes away from Sitwell's meeting spot and I nearly drag Sitwell from the car, bouncing in manic excitement. "Come on!" I shriek at him, wiggling my eyebrows. "We're going to have fun!"

It's amazing, I'm like a 110 pound girl and while Sitwell is no body builder, he must at _least _be 140 pounds. He can try to overpower me. But his legs seem to have turned to jelly and so I'm easily able to drag him through the building and up the stairs, shouting incoherent nonsense at him, while Steve and Natasha follow leisurely. Sam's vanished. The way Sitwell is resisting and twisting, it's like I'm dragging him to his execution.

"Stop!" Sitwell yells as I yank him up the stairs to the roof. "STOP! Let me go, you little monster!"

"But we're not done _playing _yet!" I happily shout into his face, grabbing his cheeks and yanking them roughly the way adults do to poor babies except I do it way more viciously. He lets out a shout of pain and I slam my hands outwards, blasting the door leading to the roof open. He watches in shock and cries, "How did you do that?"

"I'm very _talented_!" I sing while roughly shoving Sitwell into the roof. He stumbles and I stumble slightly with him but next second Steve is next to us and he grabs our arms and yanks them apart. The chain between our cuffs snaps and now I'm the proud new owner of a fabulous handcuff bracelet accessory. I decide I'll keep it on. It helps my street cred, right?

"Tell us about Zola's algorithm and Project Insight," says Steve, grabbing Sitwell by the collar and hold him slightly over the edge of the roof. Sitwell's arms wildly wheel for a moment, trying to grab onto something, and then he suddenly smiles. He's sweaty and afraid, his eyes darting to me—I wink and bare my teeth at him—but a slimy smile has spread across his face. "C'mon, Cap," he scoffs in a condescending tone. "You're just trying to make me think you're going to throw me off the roof. But that's not really your style, is it?"

Steve arches an eyebrow and cocks his head in a _Huh, you're right_ sort of fashion. "You know what?" He steps back and claps Sitwell on the chest twice in a buddy-ish manner. "You're right. It's not." Natasha strides forward and Steve smiles and says, "It's hers." And Natasha shoves Sitwell over the edge of the building. We hear his screams get more distant as Natasha turns to me and raises an eyebrow and says, "You look like a raccoon."

"I know," I say.

"But nice acting," she adds. "I thought he'd nearly cry when you added the blood part."

I give a slight curtsy. Real lady, I am.

We hear a loud rushing sound and suddenly Sam soars over the edge of the building dramatically, holding Sitwell. A very impressive sight. He throws Sitwell onto the roof and then lands, his powerful mechanical wings—my god, they must span _feet_—snapping shut and folding back into a rectangular shape. He's wearing black goggles and black combat gear and he looks unbelievably cool. I wish I could fly.

Sitwell is shaking from head to toe now and his skin is an ashen color, different from his normal brown color. Speaking of which, isn't it odd that he's in HYDRA? HYDRA is a Nazi group and I've always assumed that Nazis are all about that totally gross white pride. So what's Sitwell doing, being allowed to join their little group? Or do they not care about his skin color as long as he can help them with their evil plans?

Steve grabs Sitwell by the collar and yanks him up, shaking him violently. "Now tell us about the algorithm and Project Insight!" he snarls and in that moment, he's pretty scary. Very un-Steve Rogers like. "Or we might have our little monster friend here have a moment with you." He points to me and I grin at Sitwell and waggle my tongue at him.

Him calling me a monster stings for a sharp moment but I realize he's said it just to put on a show. Still—it's never fun to hear that you're a monster.

Sitwell looks ready to vomit at this point. "Alright, alright!" he yells in a panic. "I'll tell you! Just keep that—keep that freak away from me!"

"That's not very nice," I snarl, moving forward towards him, winking at Natasha. She grabs me in a faux-grip and pretends to hold me back and Sitwell is so scared by now that he doesn't even realize Natasha and I are doing a terrible job of faking it and are close to laughing.

"Zola's algorithm—Zola's algorithm predicts the future!" Sitwell shouts, throwing me a crazed look as if he's afraid I'll lunge at him and rip his throat out. I feel a slight power high on being able to scare him so badly. "Project Insight isn't going to just eliminate threats that exist _now_, you fools—it'll eliminate _anyone _who could ever _be _a threat!"

"That's impossible," Steve starts.

"No, it's not!" Sitwell spits. "Think, you idiot! SAT scores, grades, IQ, genetics, aptitude—all of these things can be huge predictors for who will grow up to become a threat to HYDRA! Zola's algorithm uses hundreds of variables to predict who will grow up to be a thorn in HYDRA's side. So Project Insight will take them all out _now_, thousands and thousands of people…" Sitwell licks his lips and then a horrified expression crosses his face. "Oh my god," he says hoarsely. "Pierce is going to kill me…"

I drop the act, rubbing the eye pencil away from my eyes (though I probably just smear it more) and wiping my chin. "Yeah, he probably is, you loser," I say. "But that's your problem."

"But—but you—" he stammers, looking at me.

I place my hands on my hips. "Am a pretty good actress. That's all."

"But—but your powers—"

"Oh, right, _those_ are real," I say, smiling sweetly at him.

"And now," says Natasha, "we're going to head out to the Triskelion to stop Project Insight and _you_, Sitwell, are coming with us."

* * *

We've all bundled into the car and we're heading north on the freeway as fast as we can. Sam's driving, Steve is in the shotgun seat, Natasha and I are both seated next to the window with a quivery, cowardly Sitwell playing the jelly to our bread. I watch him nervously dart his eyes around and twitch his fingers and I am so disgusted. He's pathetic.

"I'm so disgusted," I tell him. "You're pathetic."

He inhales sharply but doesn't respond. Good. I might just lose my temper and actually kill him if he does. I'm itching to bury my fist into his cowardly face. This is the second SHIELD agent I've come across who's actually HYDRA and his betrayal makes me want to slam dunk his face into the concrete. How many other agents do I know are HYDRA? Lansky? Gutierrez? What about 13? She helped us when Fury died, but who knows, she could be playing some long con. And _I'm _new to SHIELD. I can't even imagine how these betrayals feel to Natasha, who's been working for SHIELD for ages probably. It must suck to suddenly not know who in your life you can trust and who you can't.

"We need to come up with a plan to stop Project Insight," says Steve as we drive. "Can we contact Agent Hill?"

Agent Hill. Rings a bell. I cast my mind about and, oh yes, I remember her now. The thin woman with the high cheekbones that Fury was going to send me off too. But she's in New York city. How is she going to help us from there?

"Aren't we cutting it a little close here?" Natasha demands. "These helicarriers take off in less than 24 hours—"

Suddenly someone rips the car door next to me off its hinges and I can't help but let out a scream as a silver metal arm shoots into the car. But it grabs Sitwell, not _me_, and yanks him out, throwing him into oncoming traffic where he is promptly crushed by a semi truck. Everyone is shouting and panicking and Natasha grabs me around the waist and lunges forward, twisting into Steve's lap as bullets slam through the roof where we were just sitting minutes ago. Sam swerves wildly, trying to throw the man off but more bullets slam through the roof all around us as we wildly twist in the seat. It's horribly awkward—Steve's in the seat, trying and failing to get his shield out because Natasha and I are in the way. Natasha is laying in his lap, reaching her arm down frantically to grope for something and with her other arm she's gripping _me _around my waist as I just try to avoid getting shot.

Sam slams on the brakes as hard as he can and we screech to a stop, almost flipping over, to try and throw him off and we all watch in horror and shock as he catapults off of our car and goes flying like twenty feet in front of our car—but _flips _midair and lands on his toes like a lithe jungle cat, using his metal arm to slow himself down. Sparks fly from where his metal fingertips scrape against the ground. We're sitting there, staring at him as he stands up slowly and begins walking towards us—my god, this is like a familiar nightmare—and suddenly a car smashes into us from being so hard we slam forward and spin wildly. The Winter Soldier leaps back onto our car, hitting the roof with his whole body so hard every window shatters in unison and then Sam gets his wits back about him and slams on the accelerator, weaving through cars desperately at breakneck speed.

"Who the hell is this?" Sam roars, swerving like a madman to try and throw him off.

"It's the Winter Soldier!" I scream through the noise of the highway rushing past us.

_SMASH_. Unbelievably, his metal arm comes ripping through the roof—all of us let out yells and screams of shock—and _wrenches the steering wheel out of the car. _

No, I absolutely am not making this up. You're sitting there staring at me and thinking I'm on drugs, right? But no, I'm being 100% serious. He rips the _whole steering wheel _clean out of the car. This man is beyond insane.

At this point Sam can't control the car. We're going eighty miles per hour and we're headed straight for the wall of the bridge. We're going to crash and die. Lovely. At least I smell good, just as I predicted.

"Sam, get on me, NOW!" Steve yells.

Sam throws himself to the right, landing on me—I wrap my arms around him best as I can—and then we fall _out _of the car as the car flips and goes smashing past us, rolling down the road on its side. We hit the ground and skid for a few feet (it appears all four of us are piled onto Steve's now-broken-off car door like some sort of Olympic gold medalists for extreme group sledding) but then Sam falls off and then I fall off next. I hit the ground _hard_—holy road burn!—and roll on my sides, the skin on my arms getting all scraped up. Finally I roll to a stop and dizzily stagger to my feet. My heart's pounding, body is sweating, and I can feel the power shrieking in me like a tornado. I bare my teeth in the direction of a black SUV that screeches to a stop a hundred feet away—clearly HYDRA—and clench my fists. They won't take me back unless it's to carry my cold, dead body to Pierce to tell him how they failed at retrieving me.

Sam's gotten to his feet and so have Natasha and Steve, all standing a few feet away from me. The Winter Soldier walks toward us, mask in place, and he points a—what is that? _What _is _that_?

It's a bazooka gun. Oh my god. This can't be real life—

He points it straight at Steve and shoots. Steve only has time to whip his shield in front of his face before a rocket slams into him so hard he _shoots _off the bridge like some sort of comet. I hear an almighty crash, explosion, and then screams from down below. Before any of us have time to regroup, HYDRA strike agents are rushing at us, pointing guns at us, and then we're all on the move. Sam rolls behind a car next to him and I lunge to the left, following Natasha. We both throw ourselves over the edge of a car, her grabbing my arm and yanking me, and then she clips something to my belt as fast as a whip and says, "_Run _and hold on!"

Before I can say, "Come again?" she's charging across the bridge and I'm following, ducking low as bullets whiz over our heads. She leaps over the edge of the bridge, yanking me along with her, and before I know it, we're both _falling _over the edge of the building, a piece of rope floating above us—

"WE'RE GOING TO CRASH!" I scream _just _as the rope snaps taught and we swing wildly a foot above ground. Natasha unclips us and we hit the ground running, though I stumble a bit. We run under the bridge towards the other side when suddenly I see a shadow of a man with a gun on the ground on the side we're running towards. I grab Natasha and silently yank her back _just _as she's about to cross into plain view, hissing, "Look!" and pointing at the shadow. That sneaky son of a gun!

She yanks me into the shadows and we run along the length of the bridge, darting quickly across the street to hide behind an overturned bus (is _this _what Steve smashed into? I do hope the people inside are alright). "What now?" I hiss but Natasha is already on the move. She whips out a handgun, leans around the corner of the bus and I hear two sharp bangs as she expertly shoots in the Winter Soldier's direction. She throws herself back around the corner and crouches just as we hear a sudden downpour of machine gun bullets as the Winter Solder shoots multiple rounds in lightning-fast succession all around us. Bullets ricochet off of the bus and deflect off of the cars abandoned in front of us, smashing every which way, and I crouch, covering my head.

We hear shouts and we see Steve locked in combat with two HYDRA strike agents except he's making short work of them. They're really no match for Captain America. We see three more agents rushing up to help their fellows. "Go!" says Natasha, shoving me. "You run! Run as far as you can! I'm going to help Steve."

"But I can't just leave you," I cry frantically. Is she mad? Where the hell am I supposed to go? I still have the flash drive!

"Victoria, the Winter Soldier wants _you_," she says, looking me dead in the eye. "We can't let HYDRA get you. Run—I'll come and find you. Don't worry, these guys are no match for me." She rolls out from behind the bus, exchanges a few shots between some HYDRA agents firing at her from the bridge and then runs toward Steve to help him. More agents have surrounded him and even Captain America can't hold off eight men as easily as he can one or two men.

I don't want to run like a coward—I want to rip someone's head off and bash their face in—but I have no weapon so I have no choice. I take a deep breath, take my chances, and then sprint out from behind the bus. Immediately I hear shots after me but like I've told you, I'm amazingly fast at running and I weave and duck and _somehow _I'm getting further and further away, out of reach from the bullets. People, normal citizens, are blocking my path and I shout, "Get out of the way! Move! Get out of the way!" as I run, using the energy thrumming loudly inside of me to literally blast people out of my way. Oops. Sorry, folks. It won't hurt them permanently so I don't care.

I make the mistake of looking behind me as I run and—merciful heavens, he's _stalking _after me, walking a mechanical slow-yet-fluid walk that's all too reminiscent of a lethal jungle cat stalking its pray. His goggles have been tossed aside and I can't see his eyes from this distance, but I remember them—cold, blank eyes smeared with dark soot all around th—

_BAM! _Like the fool I am, I trip over a purse laying on the ground go flying. I hit the ground hard and my already scraped up, bloody arms scream in protest. I scramble to my hands and knees and look behind me. My tongue seems to slither back down my throat, choking me, because he is _so close _to me now—how can he possibly walk that fast?—and I can now see the murderous rage in his eyes—

I throw myself forward, scrambling to get under the car closest to me. If I can just get under it and make it to the other side, I can run the few yards into the bank on the other side and hide somehow. Before I can drag myself all the way under, he grabs my ankles and roughly yanks me out, ripping my arms even _more_. (By the way? I'd just like to point out that being dragged back out from under a car by someone chasing you is one of the scariest things you can ever go through. Horror films should be made about this moment.) At this point I'll be surprised if I see any flaps of skin hanging off of them at all. I scream in pain and fear and he grabs the back of my head and yanks me up by my hair. Tears of pain and rage spring to my eyes and I twist around and scream, "HA!" (don't ask; I don't pick and choose my war cries) as I slam my open palm in the direction of his face. His head slams back and he staggers back a few feet, clearly thrown off balance for a moment. I use this to my advantage and shove both palms outwards again, blasting him back another few feet. Third time's the charm, eh, so I figure I'll try again—

Except he's ready this time and grabs my arms and yanks me forward, grabbing my head and _slamming _my face into the hood of a car right behind him. Stars explode in front of my eyes and I taste rust in my mouth, on my lips, warm liquid all over my face. My ears are ringing and as he tightens his grip around my waist, all I can dizzily think is, _You're the biggest fool in the world and he's going to take you back to them_, before I heard a strange _schwing_-ing noise and a red, white, and blue round blur slams into the Winter Soldier so hard he's knocked off his feet and blasts right past me, his grip vanishing from my waist. He does jerk me a bit so I stagger back, about to fall, but someone perched on top of the car grabs my wind-milling arms and yanks me forward, up and over the roof of the car, and throws me to the ground on the other side.

"Victoria, run, NOW!" Steve yells. That's all he has time to say before the Winter Soldier lunges at him, sending Steve's shield slamming back into Steve's body.

I watch in horror and slight admiration, hovering behind the car, as they furiously fight. I don't know where Sam and Natasha are but I hear a constant volley of shots behind me, near the bridge, so obviously there's still a gunfight going on. I know I should run but I can't tear my eyes from the fight. It's too…amazing. Sorry, that's the only word for it. It's terrifying and tense but it's also amazing. Steve's a super-soldier but he's met his match with this Winter Soldier, who also seems to be a super-human of some sort. They're punching, whirling, slamming each other into the ground and into cars, and it's like watching a dance. Steve is all power and strength, straight jabs and clean movements. He's not playing dirty. He's agile and quick but he's also very _solid _if that makes any sense, using his shield directly to block the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier is like a striking cobra. He's quick and dirty, spinning and twisting like he's made of smoke, and he's throwing killing strikes like nobody's business. He's fluid and he's not above grabbing Steve's shield and using it to try and bash Steve's face in. For a moment he uses the shield to _defend _himself and it's like the moment is framed in slow motion—the Winter Soldier, eyes insane, eyebrows drawn, whirling with his hair flying, holding the shield as if _he's _the dark version of Captain America. It's a surreal moment and one I'm not likely to ever forget.

Steve is fighting to contain and the Winter Soldier is fighting to kill. At one point the Winter Soldier glances in my direction for a nanosecond before Steve slams a punch into his face and then they're fighting again, twisting and struggling furiously. I know what his look means: _You're next_.

I should run. I should _really _run and save myself. But I'm not a coward. I don't want to leave Steve and I want to help. I can't get a clear shot because they're moving around so much but I manage to blast the Winter Soldier a few times, either moving him just a foot away from Steve or closer depending on what's going on. I hit Steve once too and he staggers back as if he's been punched in the gut but we'll just ignore that, shall we? I focus and hover two pieces of brick laying around on the ground near them. I'm under so much stress that it's actually easy to hyperfocus on the bricks and lift them up. The Winter Soldier's got Steve by the throat, choking the life out of him, and he slowly lifts Steve in the air an inch while Steve wildly grasps at the Winter Soldier's hands. I hold my arms out and slam them together in a huge clapping motion. Both pieces of brick smash into both sides of the Winter Soldier's face and he drops Steve, stumbling backwards and falling over. He leaps back to his feet in a moment but the momentary pause allows Steve to get the upper hand.

He punches the Winter Soldier in the face and then claws at his face as the Winter Soldier lunges away, rolling on the ground and straightening, his back facing us. His mask clatters to the ground and I feel a thrill of mixed fear and elation. We're finally going to see this psycho's face. For a moment, we're all still as he stands with his back to us and I wonder what he's waiting for. Does he not want to reveal his face to us?

And then he slowly turns around to glare at us.

The surprises never end, do they? And here I was, thinking seeing Steve was the biggest shock I'd ever have in my life and nothing could top it. How very wrong I was. It's like someone's ripped my guts from my body and I want to topple over. My breathing feels wheezy and strangled as I stare in absolute shock and horror…at Bucky Barnes.

It's Bucky. It's him. It's…him. Stubble covers his face and his hair is long and he's glaring at us in what almost looks like a _confused _furious stare but it's Bucky Barnes. I would know his face anywhere. I would know—I've seen it in my dreams and nightmares for years.

"Bucky?" both Steve and I ask in unison. My voice sounds more strangled and Steve sounds more bewildered but there we are, both of us absolutely winded by this discovery.

The Winter Soldier furrows his brow as he glares at us even more. "Who the hell is Bucky?" he asks in a low voice. I feel like someone is using my stomach and windpipe as a punching bag. My mind and body are both frozen. It's his voice. _It's his voice! _

He glares at us for a second as if not sure what to do and then he suddenly pulls out a hand grenade. Before he can throw it, however, Sam flies out of _nowhere _and dives at him, shouting, "Not today!" and kicking the grenade out of his hand. Then Bucky—or do I call him the Winter Soldier?—pulls out a handgun and points it at Steve. Apparently he has an endless supply of weapons on his person, which is both impressive and alarming. Before he can shoot, however, a deafening blast goes off and a rocket shoots straight into him, making him temporarily vanish in a huge cloud of smoke. I whip around to see Natasha, bruised and bleeding, leaning out from behind a truck fifteen behind us, holding up the bazooka. I whirl back around to see where Bucky's gone but when the smoke and haze clears, there's no body. He's gone. That means he's survived—and vanished, as usual.

Natasha and Sam both jog up to Steve and I (who are both frozen like blinking and bewildered statues) but before the four of us can make any type of escape, huge and shiny black SUVs screech to a stop all around us, surrounding us, and men in heavy black combat gear leap out, holding machine guns, and surround us. There's at least twenty-five. We'll never be able to take them.

"Get down on your knees! Now!" one of them yells and we all do as he says. We have no choice. "Hands behind your head!" he roars and we all do so. Then a man jams the barrel of his machine gun into the back of Steve's head. My blood freezes. They're not going to _kill _Steve right here and right now, are they? If they try, I'll kill them. I'll rip each and every single one of them apart, even if it means my death here right now as well. No one is killing Steve Rogers—whether he's angry at me or not, whether I'm speaking to him or not—on my watch. But I watch as a dark-haired and tan man—the man from the elevator, Rumlow—looks up and notices news helicopters. "Not now," he says to the man pressing his gun to Steve's head. "Not _now_," Rumlow angrily repeats and the man backs off, clearly not wanting to. I suppress a grim smile. Rumlow doesn't want to kill Steve right now because all of the news helicopters will catch it on tape and then where will he be? The world will know him as the traitor who murdered _Captain America _in cold blood.

"Get them into the van!" barks Rumlow, his dark eyes darting around. "_Now_! And wait." He points to me. "Bind this one's hands." His dark eyes burn into my face and I sneer at him, give him my best bitch face, and then spit at his feet. Scumbag. _I'm going to kill you_, I promise in my mind. He clenches his fists as if he can hear my thoughts and wants to knock me out—but slowly says, still staring at me, "You don't know what she's capable of."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: If you can't picture Victoria's cuffs, picture Elsa's cuffs from **_**Frozen **_**when she got captured and thrown in prison!**

* * *

The next few minutes pass by in a blur. Two agents snap what essentially look like iron _mittens _(minus the thumb section) onto my hands. Their weight immediately makes my arms hang. It looks like I have two oversized bullets at the ends of my arms and I can't help but feel slightly panicked. Without my hands—without my powers or my fists—I am nothing. But my panic is overshadowed by the confusion that's raging inside me like a violent tempest on the sea.

See? I told you. I belong in a poetry café. I need to start sporting a beret.

Bucky. That's all I can think of as the agents snap handcuffs on the rest of the group and shove us into the back of an armored van that's ready and waiting for us. Two armed guards with helmets and face guards get in with us and take out sticks that are humming with electricity. One guard waves one in our faces and says, "Don't try to get smart with us." Then the van takes off. I have no idea where we're going but I can guess.

Somewhere remote to kill us all. With no news helicopters in view this time.

_THINK, Fizzy! _

But nothing comes to mind. All I can see is Bucky's face. Hear him saying, "Who the hell is Bucky?" as he glares at us. No recognition in his eyes. What am I saying? _Of course _he doesn't recognize us. We haven't been able to see his face this whole time but he's certainly been able to see ours—and this hasn't stopped him from trying to kidnap me or kill Steve. He doesn't know who we are. Who _is _he now? What's been done to him? How did he die in war in the 1940's and show up as an assassin in the twenty-first century?

How have all _three _of us made it to this point?

Natasha's words ring in my ears: _I wonder what poor bastard they froze to make him. _

HYDRA. This is all HYDRA's doing. Bucky fell from that train and somehow, inexplicably, HYDRA found him. They took him, the way they took me, and they did something far worse to him than they did to me. I still know who I am. I still have my memories. For whatever reason, HYDRA decided not to mess with my mind. But Bucky…

I'm lost in tormented thought for a long time. I only snap to when I hear Steve talking about Bucky: "He didn't know who we were," Steve is saying in a low voice. "HYDRA must have found him after he fell and…" His voice trails off and he looks beyond depressed.

"Hey, Steve, none of this is your fault," Natasha says quietly. I'm a bit surprised. _Comforting _doesn't really seem like the Ice Queen's style—but then again, the Black Widow always seems to do the opposite of what I expect. It's her mysterious style. She winces then, pressing a hand to her upper left shoulder, and I realize numbly that there's a hole torn into her upper arm and blood stains her entire upper half torso. She lets out a groan and leans back; her skin is unnaturally pale and her breathing is a little too shallow. She's seriously hurt.

"Hey," Sam says sharply, noticing her wound. He turns to the two agents sitting next to him. "This woman needs medical attention _now_, or else she's gonna—"

One of the guards snaps out his glowing electricity laser stick thing (forgive me, my official weapons knowledge is still pretty lame) in a menacing sort of way and Sam falls silent. But then the guard turns and stabs their stick into the guard next to them. The stabbed one lets out a muted groan, shaking violently for a few seconds as they get shocked, and then they hit the ground. We all watch in confused fascination as the guard who did the attacking yanks off their masked helmet and shakes out their hair.

"Thank god," she says, wincing and rubbing her head. "That thing was squeezing my brain!"

High cheekbones. Slim face. Brown hair. "Agent Hill!" I say, keeping my joy low-pitched so the driver doesn't hear (though with a wall between us, he's not likely to).

"Parcel!" she says, smiling at me. Then she notices Sam. "Who is this?"

"Sam Wilson at your service," says Sam. "Would you mind…?" He holds his handcuffed hands out to her.

"Oh, right." She pulls out a heavy-looking dagger and snaps the links on everyone's cuffs. Then she looks at mine. "I'm not sure how I'm gonna get _these _off," she says. "Hmmm… Oh, wait just a minute." She dives and digs in the pockets of the fallen guard, pulling out a key. "Aha! Let's try these." She sticks the tiny key into a slot in my right metal mitten and twists it. The mitten falls open on a small hinge, freeing my hands. She unlocks my left hand as well and the first thing I do is scratch all over my face. Who knew how much I'd miss my hands until I couldn't use them for a little while? Then I flex my fingers and crack my knuckles.

Sam winces. "That's really not healthy."

"Yeah," I say sarcastically, "because engaging in a fight with HYDRA is _so _great for our health."

"Alright, listen up," says Agent Hill. "This armored van is the last in a row of cars. And I have a plan to get out of here. We've been on the road for…" She checks a wristwatch. "About twenty minutes. We're right on schedule. I have a van parked in a remote location thirty minutes from where you got picked up. We'll have a ten minute walk but that's fine. We need to get going. The thing is—you need to be silent and you need to stay _still_."

"What's the plan?" Natasha asks.

Agent Hill gives a grim smile and pulls out a thin silver stick.

Oh no. Not _this _again. I let out an audible groan and say, "You're going to make us jump out of the car."

"Parcel's got the right idea," says Agent Hill. "But once you drop onto the road, roll to keep from getting burned—and _stay _on the road. It's a straight road so they won't see you as long as you stay directly behind the cars. Once we're all on the road, we'll _all _make a break for it at once to avoid them seeing us multiple times in the side view mirrors. Oh, and we need to work quickly so no other car runs us over. Are you ready?"

We all nod and she says, "Steve, help me. Hold the piece in place as I cut, otherwise it'll fall out and make a noise."

She begins to burn a hole with her silver stick thing, the powerful blue flame cutting cleanly through the steel of the back doors of the van. She cuts a large circle and as she comes close to finishing it, Steve grabs its edges to keep it from falling out. When she's done, he gently lowers it to the floor of the van.

"Alright," hisses Agent Hill. "Let's go. Steve, Romanoff, Sam, and then Parcel. I'll come last."

Steve doesn't even hesitate. He throws himself out of a van moving at eighty miles per hour like he does this on a daily basis. Which, considering who he is, maybe he does. He rolls expertly and then crouches on the road, _exactly _behind the path the cars are taking. Natasha leaps out seconds after he does, rolling again, and crouching. She's about twenty feet ahead of Steve. Sam leaps out, rolling like a pro, and crouching. What the heck is this? Is this something everyone is taught? Did I miss this lesson in school? My scraped up, bloody arms and legs are not going to thank me for this. I don't even take a deep breath. I just throw myself out of the van, going into a roll. I sort of hit the ground with a smack, manage to roll a few feet and then I lay there, groaning and mumbling pained oaths to myself. Every part of my body feels burned and torn, as if I've been cheese grated. I know my jump wasn't even _close _to how graceful and agile everyone else's was.

"Alright!" Agent Hill calls. I leap to my feet. "Let's go!"

We all make a mad dash for the forest on the right side of the road, sprinting as fast as we can, praying no one in any of the cars will notice the five figures who've just sprinted in their side mirrors' lines of vision into the forest. As we crash through the forest we close the distance between us until we're running in a line only a few feet apart and I'm proud to say that not only can I keep up with them, I'm _ahead _of all of them.

Well, except for Steve. But we all know he's just a super soldier show off.

"This way!" Agent Hill shouts, turning to the left. We run for a few more minutes and then we enter a clearing where a black van waits. She jumps into the driver's seat, Steve is in the shotgun seat, and the rest of us crawl in the back, which has all the seats flattened so it's just one flat surface. Agent Hill floors it, entering onto a dirt road that leads perpendicular to the road the HYDRA brigade was traveling on, getting farther and farther away from them. I wonder when they'll realize we're gone. Hopefully it'll be whenever they reach their destination.

Sam and I lay Natasha down and I frantically look around the van for some type of first aid kid. I don't find any but I do find a cloth laying on the side so, hoping it's clean, I press it to her wound to keep the blood in. "Agent Hill, hurry up!" I say. "She's bleeding a lot."

"On it, Parcel," Agent Hill calls back.

"Okay, where did _this _nickname come from?" Steve asks. No one answers.

I motion for Sam to take over holding the cloth down because I want to talk to Steve for a moment but Natasha suddenly grabs my wrist in a vice-like grip. Ouch. The woman is strong even despite losing a lot of blood. I look down into her face and she mouths, _Thank you_. I hesitate. I'm not sure what she's thanking me for—stopping her from bleeding out? Or something else? Either way, she's in no position to be explaining anything right now so I nod at her and crawl over to Steve after Sam takes over holding the cloth down while cracking a joke about how Natasha still looks great despite being shot. I hear her let out a raspy chuckle.

"Steve," I say, kneeling on my knees beside his seat. "What are we going to do about Bucky?"

The atmosphere in the car changes immediately. I can tell everyone is now listening to me. It makes me uncomfortable but what can I do? There's no hiding anything from these people anymore. I'm an intensely private person but we're all in this together now. "He didn't know us," I continue, flashes of Bucky's glaring—and empty—eyes repeatedly whirling in my mind. What's been done to my best friend? My stomach has a burning, sick feeling when I think about the fact that he's been trying to kill us (and kidnap me) this whole time. Bucky Barnes would never…

But he's not Bucky Barnes right now.

"We're going to stop him," Steve says firmly, "and help him. He doesn't know what he's doing. HYDRA must have done something to him. Erased his memories or something."

"What if you can't stop him, Steve?" Agent Hill asks calmly. "What if the choice is kill—or be killed?"

Steve's mouth opens for a moment and he seems unable to speak. I can see the pain in his blue eyes and I know it's reflected in my own eyes. The thought of killing Bucky, even a Bucky who has no idea who we are and is a killer… No. I won't think about it. Push it away, like I do with everything else. "It won't come down to that," Steve says, though his voice doesn't exactly sound one hundred percent certain. "It _won't_," he insists again and Agent Hill doesn't say anything in response. I can tell, however, from the expression on her face that she's not as sure as Steve. And I know, in that moment, that Agent Hill won't hesitate to kill Bucky if she needs to. In fact…

I glance back at Natasha and Sam. I'm sure either of them won't hesitate to kill him if they need to. And I understand. Staying alive is more important for them than trying to help someone they don't know. But this means I have to keep them away from Bucky. He needs help—not a bullet in the heart.

_Does he? _whispers an ugly voice in my mind. _What if he can't come back? What if he's past saving?_

_ Shut your ugly mouth_, I instruct myself sternly.

_Can you do it? Can you kill him? You've killed before. Innocent people. And whoever Bucky is now, he's not innocent. So…can you do it?_

God, having a conscious is such an annoying thing. My kingdom for a truly heartless soul that doesn't always try to guilt-trip me into doing the heroic thing even when my instincts are more selfish.

"How did you even _get _here, Agent Hill?" Steve asks suddenly, a confused expression on his face. "None of us called you."

"I knew something was wrong," she replies, not taking her eyes off the road. "Fury let me know SHIELD was compromised and he was mailing…Parcel to me." Her eyes flick to me. "But when I didn't hear from Fury at the parcel drop sight, I got suspicious and hacked into SHIELD systems—and I saw that _you _were a wanted man, Steve. All efforts were being directed into hunting you down for Fury's murder. I knew there was no way you were involved in the Director's death so I flew here as fast as I could under deep cover and got to work trying to get to you. And make preparations for…other things."

"Where are we going now?" I ask. "The Triskelion?"

Agent Hill presses her lips together. "No. First there's someone we need to meet with."

* * *

Water dripped down the dirty cement walls and the cheap fluorescent lights gave everyone a ghastly green glow. It definitely wasn't the nicest work setting he'd ever been situated in but it wasn't the worst, not by far. It didn't matter to him anyway. He sat in a patient chair, staring off at the wall opposite from him, while scientists bent over his cybernetic arm, fixing whatever damage that man had done.

That man. He was strong and fast—as strong and fast as _him_, the Winter Soldier recognized, and this puzzled him slightly. How could a normal human be as advanced as him? Regular humans weren't made like he was. Yet that man had fought with unbelievable ferocity and the Winter Soldier had even, for a tiny moment during their fight, believed that he might be defeated for the first time in his existence.

Yet the man didn't kill him.

And then there was the girl—Asset 56, she was called. His job had been to retrieve her and twice he had failed. He couldn't surmise how one small human female had managed to escape him from _twice_. It was…wrong. It didn't compute. But she had powers—he had witnessed this during his battle with the blond man. He hadn't been aware that the girl had extra abilities, no one had briefed him on this, but there was no denying it. She had used her arms to somehow move and lift and slam things and _him _without touching anything… He felt a slight twinge of irritation at her escaping him twice. She was an insignificant insect that he had to capture but there was…something…about her…

What had the girl and the man called him? _"Bucky." _He didn't understand what they meant—why they both stared at him as if they somehow _knew _him—but it bothered him, this not understanding. These variables didn't connect with the information he already had on—

_He was holding onto something icy and cold. The wind was tearing into his face and eyes and he could feel unbelievable terror. Everything was white, blinding white—_

_ He was grabbing a thin arm and looking into someone's gray-blue eyes and she was staring at him with shock and anger—_

_ "Besides, you're busy!" And then he was watching a girl run away from him, auburn-gold glinting in dim lights—_

_ "Bucky!" screamed a man with a blond face and blue eyes as he fell—_

_ Falling falling falling falling—_

_ Pain—_

_ No no no—_

"NO!" The scream suddenly burst out of him as the strange images hurtled through his mind and he slammed his cybernetic arm out, sending the scientists flying. He whirled and grabbed the other man on his other side and threw him wildly against the wall. His heart was thundering and his head was hurting and he felt confused—what had just happened to him? What had he just seen? What—

Someone jammed a needle into his neck from behind and immediately he felt the effects, the strength draining from his muscles. He slumped back into the chair, his mind going dull as his world got more numb and blurry. The man…the girl…something…he was thinking of something…

A face floated into view and he blinked twice to make the image clearer. Pierce. Leader. Authority.

"Status report," came Pierce's voice.

The man with the blond hair. He had looked so—

"Status _report_," came Pierce's voice more sharply. The Winter Soldier knew he had to respond right away—his superior was speaking to him—but he couldn't stop thinking about the man and the girl and the way they had stared at him, the way they had _stared_—

_SLAP. _His face snapped to the side and his cheek stung but other than that, he didn't react. This happened ever now and then, when he was slow to obey. He had to make sure this didn't happen again.

"The man on the bridge," he mumbled. "The girl with the…" _With the hair like honey. _

"What?" Pierce asked sharply.

"Who were they?" he asked slowly, still staring at the floor in bewildered confusion. "They said…

"You met them earlier this week on an assignment," said Pierce. "When you failed to retrieve Asset 56." His voice was sharp and the Winter Soldier dully recognized that he had failed in his mission for the first time ever.

"But they…" The Winter Soldier didn't even understand what he was trying to say. His chest felt tight. He didn't understand why.

"Soldier. Listen to me." Pierce ignored the Winter Soldier's childish mumbles and knelt by him, looked him right in the eyes, and the Winter Soldier averted his gaze. He felt a hot sensation searing his stomach. Shame. He had messed up. He hadn't obeyed. This was wrong. He was supposed to obey. He was supposed to kill the man and get the girl. What had he done?

He had failed.

But they…

"Your work has been a gift to mankind," Pierce said slowly. "You've shaped the century."

A gift to mankind. The words rang in the Winter Soldier's throbbing head. He had shaped the century. Yes. He had done well. He was a good soldier. He did what he was told and he never missed his mark. Except for now. He kept stumbling. Kept making mistakes. Who were they?

Such blue eyes.

_"Bucky?"_

"And I'm going to need you to do it one more time," said Pierce. "Do you understand?"

The Winter Soldier struggled to speak. Something was terribly wrong with him. He recognized this. He had never disobeyed to this extent. He had never ignored orders this way. He wasn't thinking about what the leader was saying at all and this was—wrong. He shouldn't be thinking about the man or the young woman at all. But he…

"But I knew them," he whispered and as he said it, he felt a funny jerking sensation behind his naval, as if he were falling. His mind was filled with images of a bridge—snow—the man with the blond hair and the blue eyes that shot him through—the girl whirling and running away from him—her hair— He suddenly knew it was true. He didn't understand the _how _or the _why _or the _when _but he understood the _what_. The piece fit neatly into his mind and he desperately tried to grasp for the other variables. The other pieces of the puzzle.

Pierce regarded him for a moment with what seemed like cold disappointment and then he stood up. "Wipe him," he commanded to a young scientists near the door.

Wiping. The Winter Soldier felt a little colder suddenly. It was time again. He didn't like it when this happened.

"But s-sir, he's been out of cryo for too long," stammered the scientist.

Pierce took about as much notice of the scientist as he would have of an ant crawling on his shoe. "Wipe him," he repeated calmly and then strode from the room without a backwards glance.

Two scientists timidly approached the Winter Soldier, afraid that he'd attack them as well, but he sat back in his chair. He knew how this went. This was routine. Someone offered him a mouth clamp and he bit down onto it, sullenly staring blankly in front of him, seeing nothing. His heart began to pound faster in anticipation to the pain that was coming. Metal cuffs snapped down onto his arms as did cuffs around his ankles, locking them to the base of the chair. He leaned back. His chest was heaving now. He wouldn't like this one bit. He never did. It was the only time he ever wondered what the peaceful oblivion of death felt like.

But this was his duty.

He leaned his head back and they lowered the humming electrode head cage around him, connecting the pieces to his scalp. Someone flipped the on switch—

Last minute flickering images of blue eyes, golden-auburn hair, and a word—

_"Bucky?"_

_ But I knew them._

And then he started screaming, teeth clenched, as unbelievable pain surged through his mind, ripping apart his mind and melting his mind. His screaming echoed throughout the room even as most everyone left and the lights went semi-dark. And on and on and on he screamed.

* * *

Agent Hill drives for another twenty five minutes before she pulls up to a huge sewer pipe—and I mean _huge_, like as tall as two men and as wide as eight men standing shoulder to shoulder—that's built under an underpass. "We're going in _there_?" I demand, a little revolted. No thank you. I did not sign up to go wading through human waste and rabid rats.

"Don't worry, it's not what you think," says Agent Hill. And that's all she says. A woman of little words, she is.

Despite looking not very well, Natasha is able to walk—er, stumble—on her own, propping herself against Sam. We follow Agent Hill into the sewer pipe and I try not to think of dragons or huge basilisks hiding in the depths. It's relatively clean and well-lit inside but you never know. After seeing _both _of my dead friends somehow back to life and having one of them try to attack me twice, I'd almost rather meet a dragon.

Agent Hill leads us through some twists and turns for a few minutes and then there's a man running at us, wearing all-black. Steve and I tense, immediately going into fight mode, but Agent Hill waves us off and calls to the man, "Romanoff's been shot—she needs help immediately."

"Wait, where are we?" Natasha demands, looking pale. "I'm not getting help until I see who we're meeting."

Agent Hill suppresses a sigh and you can almost see the _THIS idiot_ expression on her face but she says, "Fine, he can attend to you in the room. Hurry up." She leads us to a door set at the end of one of the tunnels (is that _supposed _to be there?) and knocks four times before entering. We push through a set of hanging curtains to see—

"Does _anyone _ever stay dead anymore?" I demand. Shock flows through my veins.

"Good to see you too, Miss Marsden," says Fury.

"Thanks," says Steve.

I cover my face with my hands. When will I learn to control my tongue? I'm an idiot.

Natasha looks stunned, her eyes white and wide, and she collapses in a chair near Fury, who's laying on a hospital-type of bed in a large and empty room. There's some machines next to him, hooked up to his arm and neck. White bandages cover his bare chest and stomach. He's still wearing his eye patch, though. Does he sleep with that thing? Shower with it? Go on dates with it? You gotta wonder.

"How are you alive?" Natasha asks in a weary voice as a medic kneels by her to address her wound. "Your heart stopped."

"We can thank Dr. Banner for that," says Fury. "He invented a solution that slows down heart rates to one beat per minute. He was trying to invent a synthetic way to keep calm. Unfortunately it didn't work for him…but we found a use for it anyway."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Natasha asks quietly.

"Any attempt on the Director's life had to look successful," replies Agent Hill.

"I didn't know who to trust," adds Fury.

Ouch. I look at Natasha, knowing this must hurt on some level. Her face is devoid of any emotion but I can sense hurt flickering beneath her surface. This bothers her, that Fury didn't know if he could trust her or not.

"Fill us in on what's happened so far," commands Fury (demanding as ever, I see). He winces for a moment, gingerly touching his bandages.

Natasha is in no mood to talk. Sam isn't familiar enough with what's going on. I don't think I can explain properly. So we all turn and stare expectantly at Steve. He sighs but gets to work explaining to Fury everything that's happened since he was shot to death—er, supposed death—in Steve's apartment.

When he finishes, he asks, "So when you said 'Keep your safe', you meant because…"

"Of her powers," Fury finishes. Everyone looks at me and I scowl. Go away. Shoo. I don't like all eyes on me. Thankfully they all turn back to Fury when he begins to speak again. "We have, of course, picked up on other people with powers around the world—we have retrieval teams everywhere. Or we _had _them, at any rate. But none of those powers have been _innate_. They've all been through injections, serums, experiments gone wrong… Marsden here is the first we've come across who seems to have been _born _with her powers, though they manifested later on. That makes her unbelievably powerful, especially since we don't know how her powers will grow with her as she ages." He frowns at me like I'm a science experiment and I shift uncomfortably. He's making me feel like I'm a ticking time b—

"And Bucky?" Steve demands, cutting off my thoughts. "Did you know about him?"

"I promise you, I didn't know about Barnes," says Fury. Steve scowls. He doesn't look like he much believes him. Fury can clearly see this because he insists, "It's wrong, what's been done to your friend. But he's not your friend anymore and if he gets in our way—"

"We are _not _taking him down," Steve says loudly.

Silence falls and I can feel the tension mounting as Steve and Fury stare at each other. They're not exactly glaring but they're…hard-staring. Mean-mugging. Clearly neither of them wants to relinquish his position.

I roll my eyes at the alpha male battle going on—god, do men _ever _stop with the testosterone-fuelled wars?—and slowly say, "We're not going to kill Bucky. End of story." My voice is hard and Fury looks at me. "You want my powers at your disposal?" I ask. "You want me on your side? Then Bucky is off the table."

"Victoria's right," says Steve loudly. "You had your chance, Fury. But SHIELD is done. Now we're doing this my way."

Fury raises an eyebrow in an _Oh, _are _you now? _fashion. "So you're giving the orders now, are you, Cap?"

"Yes," says Steve firmly, "I am."

They both stare at each for another moment and then you can literally _feel _Steve win. Fury backs away (in spirit) and lets out a low, hoarse chuckle punctuated by some painful-sounding coughs. "Alright then," he says. "We'll do this your way, Cap. Get to work."

The plan is simple—and yet difficult. I'm not sure I understand some of the technical mumbo jumbo Agent Hill says but I get the gist of it. There are three helicarriers and when they rise into the air, Zola's algorithm will allow them to point their guns at exactly who they need to. We need to replace some technological thing of theirs with some technological thing of _ours_. I don't really get that bit but I get that it'll give _us _control over the helicarriers and it'll disrupt the algorithm, so the helicarriers won't know where to point the guns. So that's all we need to do. Simple. Easy. Cake.

Except for the bit where we need to break into the Triskelion and get onto these three helicarriers without being detected or dying.

"Agent Romanoff and I will take internal," says Agent Hill. What? I stare at her in confusion and she sighs. "We'll take the building," she says. "Steve, Sam, and _you _can take the helicarriers. One for each of you."

I admit, I'm surprised for a moment. She's trusting me to do this alongside them? I was half-expecting her to baby me and tell me I'd have to sit this one out due to not having formal training. But she's letting me do this. Good. I may not be a trained SHIELD agent or a superhero but I still know how to fight and I still have my powers and I'm still determined to destroy HYDRA.

No one argues with me taking on a helicarrier. Either the job is easier than I'm thinking—or they've accepted that I'm a part of this team and not just some little victim. Whatever. I don't care. I'm glad to be in on the action.

"How are we going to get into the Triskelion?" I ask. "I'm sure it's full of HYDRA agents by now."

"Leave that up to me," says Agent Hill, smiling grimly. "I can manage that. It's what happens _once _we get inside that matters. I'm going to head straight for the control room. Natasha—we need to get you up to Pierce and take him out. Sam, Steve, and Parcel—"

Is she going to call me that forever? I have too many nicknames now.

"—are going to head for the helicarriers. We need to time this correctly. We can't switch the chips out _before _they take off because then we won't be able to destroy the helicarriers, and it gives people a better chance of switching the chips back in and out. So you need to get on them and wait till they take flight."

"Sounds good," says Steve, "but we're going to make a quick stop at the control room before we go."

Agent Hill frowns at him. "Cap…I don't think we have the time f—"

"The true agents of SHIELD deserve to know what's going on," he says and I bite back a smile. Honorable Steve. His straight-as-an-arrow morals are going to get him hurt one day—but there's something really nostalgic and…_nice _about the fact that _someone _out there is just a decent person. I'm not a decent person. I don't think any of us in the room are decent people. Heck, even Steve probably has his not-decent sides. But he's the best out of all of us and I can say that without any bias.

Agent Hill decides it's best not to argue (wise of her; no one stands in between Steve and telling the truth) and we move on. There isn't much else to plan. This is a risky, rogue mission. We don't have backup, we don't have the law on our side, we don't know who to trust, and we don't have endless weapons and jets and the like. We're just five people—six, if you count the injured Fury—who are trying to take down an invisible enemy. It'll be a miracle if we can pull this off.

"But first," says Steve, as we're about to leave, "we need uniforms." Luckily, Agent Hill's been smart enough to remember that some of us might not have uniforms so she nabbed a few from the Triskelion. She managed to get the Black Widow's suit and I get to see Natasha as the real Black Widow for the first time, all black leather and badass. She gives me a slim-fit black suit made out of the same type of material diving suits are (I think) but I choose to keep my Converse and royal blue hoodie. I don't know why I keep the hoodie; it's large and the color pops and is highly visible—but it helps me feel safe. Guarded, like I have a cocoon around me. She has Steve's Captain America suit as well, the sleek dark navy with the white symbol on front but Steve says, "I had something a little different in mind…"

* * *

"Go, go, go!" Steve leaps into the backseat of the car and Agent Hill neatly peels away from the Smithsonian's back entrance without attracting any attention. I gape at Steve. I can't help it. He's wearing his old uniform—his _old_, original uniform, from World War II. Seeing him in it…it's like I'm seeing him in it for the first time, reliving that strange day. Wanting an ice cream. Chasing after him and Agent Carter and the man with the gun, who I now know was a HYDRA member. Feeling oddly shy around Steve because he was so _big_. In fact, I'm still not so used to seeing him look so big, though I'm not scared of him now. I'm just…confused around him. Still, it's like taking a trip into my past when I see the bright blue and red, the stars and stripes, slightly faded and worn by time but still in relatively good condition. Captain America. _My _Steve Rogers.

I feel a lump in my throat and I suddenly want to say so much to Steve but, as usual, now isn't the time for speaking.

"I can't believe you stole your old suit," says Natasha.

"I think I'll need it," Steve says.

I glance at him. Everyone looks a bit confused but no one's asking any questions. His tone isn't inviting questions. Still…I can't help but wonder if he's put on his old suit because it's the last suit _Bucky _saw him in. Does a part of Steve hope that if Bucky sees this suit, he'll remember Steve?

I think a part of me hopes that, too.

We make it to the Triskelion without any problems. Agent Hill parks at a small, isolated shed about a mile away from the actual building, parking behind a thicket of trees. We follow her as she unlocks the shed and ushers us inside. She shuts the door, locks it behind her, and yanks a string hanging from the ceiling. A dull light bulb flickers to life—illuminating a passage that descends into the ground on a steep slant. "This passage leads all the way to a service entrance at the Triskelion," explains Agent Hill. "It used to be used to bring in large cargo—but that was before we had the new garages and hangars built. No one uses this passage anymore. Unfortunately, the lights inside have died out so we'll be in total darkness for a mile. If anyone's scared of the dark, now's the time to get over it."

She yanks the string, plunging us into darkness, and we take off running. The floor slants for a bit and then it flattens out again. It's very weird to be running in pitch darkness with only the sounds of everyone's quiet breathing around us. No one sounds winded. We're all in shape. I keep hitting someone's feet so I press close to the wall and bypass everyone, running ahead of the group. Soon I hear them fall far behind.

"You're still fast."

Steve's whisper comes from right ahead of me and I can't help but jump a little in shock. "Cripes!" I hiss. "You scared me!"

I hear him chuckle once. "Sorry. But cripes? Don't you think that's a little outdated now? We need to get with the times, right?"

"_You're _outdated, Grandpa," I volley back, knowing it's a lame shot. After all, if Steve is a grandpa, then what does that make _me_? Then I add, "And of course I'm still fast. Beat you in every race we ran."

"Not anymore," he whispers. I detect a smile in his voice, despite all the garbage I've given him.

"Wanna bet?" I whisper back. And without waiting for an answer, I _sprint. _Throw myself forward, running so fast my feet barely seem to touch the floor. I'm almost flying and it's exhilarating. I've forgotten how much fun running is when you're not being chased by the cops or by some thug. I race for a while and then the floor suddenly slants upwards and I push forward, sprinting up the slope until the ground levels out again. I stop, panting slightly, and the light flickers on without me pulling the string. Steve's leaning against the wall, waiting, arms folded, small smile on his face. Damn. _It._

"Not a word," I warn.

"Wasn't planning on it," he says.

We wait for Agent Hill, Natasha, and Sam to catch up, which they do five minutes later. "Damn," pants Sam. _Now _he's winded. "I know Cap's a super-soldier but what's up with _you_, Vicky?" I see Steve wince when Sam calls me by the dreaded "Vicky." I wince too. I hate any and all variations of my full name.

I shrug. "Born fast."

Agent Hill approaches the door and gently nudges it open, peeking out slightly. The coast is obviously clear because she says, "Ready? Follow me," and strides out, leaving us to silently follow her. We're crazy to do this but I think we're _just _crazy enough to pull this off. Time to challenge HYDRA…because what would a day in my life be without risking my life a couple (hundred) times?


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you to everyone reading and reviewing, especially my lovelies who review every time! You guys seriously know how to make a writer's day. No joke. I love you guys. And thanks to Willisthesheep for your lovely review. It's so flattering that I turned quite pink in the face! I'd have responded privately but you know, you reviewed when not logged in, so! Thanks, the whole lot of you. :)**

* * *

Agent Hill must be made of magic because we make it to the control room without incident. Well—_almost _without incident. She shoots two guards in front of the control room. But aside from them, we don't run into any enemies. The ease of it all is almost a little unnerving. Shouldn't we have run into someone by now? I feel like I can smell a trap but maybe my nose is just blocked from a cold or something, because nothing happens. Agent Hill, Sam, Steve, and I enter the room (Natasha's already vanished by now) and the guards inside freeze as we enter.

They're young men, pimply things with youthful terror on their faces. They're probably a few years older than me but I know that simply from my expression and stance, I look years older. One of them opens his mouth to shakily say, "H-Hey, you're not—you can't—"

Thirty seconds later, we have both young men tied to a chair in the corner and gagged. Their eyes are wide and they're not even screaming; they're too busy gawping at us. They shouldn't even be mad, really. How many people can say they've been tied up by Captain America?

Okay, that came out sounding wrong. Correction—how many people can say they're important enough to have been detained by Captain America?

Even though these boys aren't important or anything.

"Patch me over to the intercom, Hill," commands Steve. "I have an announcement to make."

"The whole building will know you're here," warns Hill.

"That's the point," says Steve. Agent Hill starts punching away at some buttons, doing some computer-y thing that I don't understand, and then she silently hands a microphone to Steve. He takes a deep breath and then speaks into it: "This is Captain Rogers."

I can't help it. I let out a startled jump when I hear his voice echo through the building, its magnitude multiplied tenfold. I can't actually _see_ anyone but I can just picture everyone in the building freezing as they hear Steve's voice. Real SHIELD agents will feel shock and confusion. HYDRA agents will be feeling that as well, but they'll also be scrambling to locate where Steve is speaking from. We probably don't have long.

"I know you've been assigned to hunt me down," says Steve. "And I know that you're just doing your jobs. But SHIELD isn't what it seems anymore. It's been taken over by HYDRA—a rogue Nazi organization." He pauses and takes a breath. "Alexander Pierce is their leader," he says and it's like the word "leader" rings throughout the building. I see the eyes of the two tied up boys get even wider. Any wider and their whole eyeballs will actually roll out of their heads. I decide suddenly that they can't be HYDRA. Way too wimpy.

"If you follow through on Pierce's orders and allow the helicarriers from Project Insight to take flight…a lot of innocent people are going to die," says Steve seriously. "Thousands. Millions. I'm going to stop HYDRA, even if I have to fight alone—but I'm willing to bet that I'm _not _alone. The price of freedom is high—but it's a price I'm willing to pay. I hope some of you are willing to pay it as well. Don't let those helicarriers into the air. Don't let control and chaos take the place of freedom. Stand up for what's right. Stand up for liberty." He clicks the microphone off and sets it down.

"Did you write that on the way here," Sam jokes, grinning, "or do you come up with award-winning speeches off the top of your head?" I can't help but agree. That speech was majestic. Of course Steve Rogers would be the one to come up with it on the spot. Perhaps he should be writing novels instead of fighting evil.

I can only imagine the chaos that's going on inside the Triskelion right now. Captain America has slipped in from right under HYDRA's nose—and he's exposed them to the rest of the SHIELD. People will be frozen right now, perhaps not understand what's going on…but then they will start to eye their neighbors with shifty gazes and suspicion, wondering who is friend and who is foe. And then people will have to make a choice, one that may mean the difference between life and death. Alexander Pierce will be furious, wherever he is, if he's lucky enough to not already have been killed by Natasha's hands. I can only imagine how cold and dead his shark eyes will be looking right now—the look of an animal right before diving into the kill.

Agent Hill is frowning. "I told you the helicarriers _did _have to take flight—"

"Change of plans," says Steve. "Who's going to get Victoria off of the helicarrier once it's in air, before we shoot it down? No. No way."

Wait—did Steve just change the entire plan to protect _me_? Good god, my face is red, isn't it? Yes, my face is red and burning and I'm torn between wanting to hug Steve but mostly wanting to clobber him over the head and beat him bloody because _how humiliating_ is this? He's treating me like some sort of child.

Even though he has a good point. How _was_ I going to get off the helicarrier in time?

"Steve, you _have _to get moving," says Agent Hill, looking at a watch on her wrist. "You're losing time, fast."

"Sorry, lads," I say sweetly, giving both of the wide eyed young man a light slap on the cheek. "We won't be untying you just yet. Go to sleep. Time will pass by more quickly."

Steve, Sam, and I bid Agent Hill a quick farewell and then we leave after Agent Hill tells us the shortest and easiest way to get the helicarriers. I follow behind Steve and Sam, skipping backwards every now and then. We take back corridors and hallways that are less populated, but we do come across some bewildered guards. If they're ahead of us Steve incapacitates them before they can shout for help. If they show up behind us I slam them against the walls and knock them out. The one time the guard _doesn't _get knocked out (he looks like he has an extraordinarily thick skull) Sam is ready and punches him in the face to knock him out. And I admit—in those moments, as we make our way to the helicarrier hangars, I'm proud and happy. We're working as a team and I feel like I'm important.

Of course, my life sucks. So of _course _this changes very soon. But you'll have to hold on for a moment. First comes some more fighting.

We make it out onto the tarmac and it's clear that we're too late—the helicarriers have already risen in the sky. "What _now_?" I spit. "We were supposed to be _on _those while they took off!"

"Sam, carry me up to a that one," Steve orders, pointing to a helicarrier on the right.

Sam looks alarmed. "What—carry _you_?" I can't say I blame him. Steve does _not _look light. Sam's a built guy but carrying the current Steve Rogers… "Fine," he says suddenly, probably realizing we have no other choice. Either that or he doesn't want to appear like a weakling. "Hold on, Cap."

"Victoria, stay out of sight!" is all Steve has time to shout before Sam backs up, takes a running start, grabs Steve under the arms and leaps into the air, his mechanical wings _exploding _outwards in a powerful snap. I see him falter slightly, jerking sideways, under Steve's weight—but then they're both rising, flying quickly. I hear shouts and then see men running out onto the tarmac, holding guns, aiming at Sam and Steve.

_Stay out of sight_, Steve said.

Oh Steve. You don't know me very well anymore, do you?

I run at the men trying to shoot Steve and Sam. Luckily for me, they're too preoccupied in their mission to notice me approaching and I manage to dredge up enough fury to throw my hands out and blast all three of them backwards. They all hit the ground and their guns go flying and I'm satisfied. I'm not as satisfied the next moment when they're clambering back to their feet and diving for their guns. Oh sh—

I whirl and notice large wooden packing crates stacked next to us, towering over us. I throw my hands to the right, motioning as if I were pushing something sideways. Pain erupts behind my eyes and I feel a little dizzy from using so much power. The ground wavers and I stagger back a step, blinking, but I've done what I wanted: the entire stack of enormous crates goes crashing onto the men, who stagger back, screaming, but too little, too late—they've been smashed under the crates. I don't know if they're dead or alive but I'm not sticking around to find out. Our little altercation has caught the attention of some men further away and they're running at me now, shouting and pointing guns. I spin around and run.

I have no idea where I'm going or how I'm going to get to the helicarrier I needed to—but before I can try to figure either of these things out, I hear someone yell, "HEAD'S UP, GIRL!" and then my heart nearly explodes with fright as someone grabs me under my armpits and shoots into the air like a rocket.

"Sam!" I scream but my voice is swallowed by the whistling wind as we race up to the helicarriers. He's dodging bullets and I shout, "HOLD ONTO ME TIGHT OR SO HELP ME, SAM, I WILL—!" My stomach is turning and I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to see how high we are. How far I'll fall if Sam lets me go—

And then he suddenly _does _let me go. I open my mouth to scream, eyes still squeezed shut—goodbye world, Fizzy out!—but just as soon I hit a hard surface. Making it clear that today is _not _the day I plunge to my death from the sky. Hurrah. I open my eyes just as Sam lands next to me and yanks me to my feet. I look around, a bit disoriented, and realize I'm on a helicarrier.

"Helicarrier one on lock!" comes Agent Hill's voice through my ear pierce and I jump in shock. I'd forgotten we were wearing these. "Falcon, Cap, hurry up, we need the other two helicarriers locked in _pronto_!"

"On it!" comes Steve's voice and he suddenly slams to the ground right in front of me. Where he's jumped from, I have no idea.

"Let's go," he says to Sam and me and I suddenly know what's happened. He told Sam to take him up to the first helicarrier. Then, while Steve exchanged the micro-card or whatever it is, Sam came down to grab me and take me up to the same helicarrier where Steve is. Now Sam is going to take both of us to the second helicarrier and he'll fly to the third helicarrier on his own. Basically…I'm just tagging along with wherever Captain America goes. I have no use. I should have known…

"You don't trust me," I say. The words sound horrible in my mouth—steeped in childish anger and bitterness and I wish I haven't said them but they've come out anyway.

"Victoria, we don't have time for this," says Steve. "We need to get to the other two helicarriers. Sam?"

"Hold on tight," Sam warns. "I won't be able to hold the two of you for long. Good thing the other helicarriers aren't so far," he adds in a low grumble.

"Victoria, hold on to me," commands Steve.

I don't want to. I want to get the heck away from him. I want to stab him in the gut. I want to scream because I've always been a stupid useless little girl and I apparently always will be, no matter _what _I go through, no matter _how _I try to prove myself.

And what's the point? Nothing will work. No one will ever see me as important. Strong. Tough.

It just doesn't matter anymore.

Usually when I get angry, I'm energetic, frantic, violent. I explode into action and argue and fight. I don't back down. I'm like a hurricane, destroying everything and everyone in my path. But this time…this time… I'm just done. Defeated. Shoulders-sagging, heart-wilted, spirit-crushed type of defeated. Which is why I silently grab Steve without an argument. I don't really care anymore. We'll get to the other helicarrier—Captain America will save the day again—and then I'll vanish. And this time, I'll do it for good. One of my best friends is an assassin who doesn't remember us, one of my best friends is changed and doesn't need me anymore, so who am I staying for? I'll run. And I'll run far, so far that they'll never find me. Hide in the streets of Tokyo. The wilds of India. Some tiny village in Romania. Wherever I need to go to never remember any part of Victoria—or Fizzy—or even Parcel—ever again.

I'll become someone totally different.

Falcon (again…where's _my _cool nickname?) runs back a couple dozen feet, snaps his wings open, and then takes a running leap at us. To make things easier, Steve also takes a running start and then leaps into the air as high as he can, with me clinging to him like a koala bear. He times it _just so _that Sam is able to grab him and we fly off the helicarrier. Sam drops a couple of feet due to the extra weight he's carrying (you have to give the man props; carrying Captain America like this _can't _be easy) and for a terrifying moment when we're hundreds of feet in the air, me clinging to Steve so tightly I'm probably cutting off his blood circulaton, I think we're going to fall.

Splat. The end of Captain America, Victoria Marsden, and the Falcon. Just like that. Pierce will laugh at how easy it was for him.

But then Sam—moving a little more slowly and jerkily, letting out grunts of exertion and pain—flies over to the next helicarrier and practically _throws _us onto the ground in his relief to be free of us. He zooms into the air like a rocket, spinning, and I hear him let out a shout of glee in my ear pierce. "I'm onto the next helicarrier, Cap!" he shouts and he shoots off to the third helicarrier, saying, "You get this done! We're so close!"

I suppose I should describe the helicarriers for a moment, since they're not normal aircraft. They look more like very wide rectangular barges with flat ship-like surfaces but in the very middle of each one is a huge three-story glass-and-metal structure that encapsulates a control panel at the top of a tower and a network of metal bridges and stairs and pathways that lead to the control panel. It's along this open surface we're running as fast as we can to the glass structure that houses the control panel. I'm trying to concentrate on keeping up with Steve—and I'm failing, he's paces ahead of me—but he suddenly doubles back, grabs my hand, and yanks me forward, keeping me in pace with him (though I'm stumbling a bit now, tripping over my feet).

And he's still holding my hand. I manage to look at him and he says, "We're going to talk," and then he lets go and sprints even faster.

What just happened? Does he mean we're going to talk _now_? Is he mad? I try to remember if Steve's always been this mad. I don't think so. Hmmm.

I run after him, pushing myself. I can feel my heart beginning to beat faster and the sun is beating on my back. I'm sweating and I can sense that something major is about to happen, though I can't tell _what_.

"Cap, I got the second one!" comes Sam's voice—but it's not through the ear pierce. It's from the air. Steve and I both stop running and look up as Sam lands in front of us, grinning wildly. "Second one is done," he says, "so I thought I'd come help you g—"

_CRASH. _For a moment I can't even see what's happened—but suddenly the Winter Soldier—wait, no, _Bucky_—is standing in front of us and I realize he's crashed through a tall stack of crates that are laying to our left. If he ever needs a second job later in life, I think magician would be a good one. The way he just appears and disappears. It'd be amazing if it weren't terrifying. Before anyone can react, he lunges forward and slams Steve in the chest with a high kick so powerful that Steve _shoots _off the edge of the helicarrier. This all happens in a matter of seconds and I let out a yell of shock and dash over to the edge, leaning precariously over it to frantically see if Steve's hurtling to earth.

Oh. So _this _is the major thing that's happening.

"Victoria!" Steve yells. Enormous relief washes through me and then panic, a second later—he's _barely _clinging onto the edge. Behind me, I can hear rapid fire gunshots and can only pray that Sam will keep Bucky distracted long enough for me to help Steve.

"Grab my hand!" I yell, leaning over the edge, trying to reach Steve, who's dangling.

He swings up in a powerful motion—our hands grip—

"OW!" I wail as someone grabs the back of my hair and yanks me back, throwing me to the ground so roughly it feels like my neck's been snapped. Tears sting my eyes and for a moment, fiery pain runs up and down my spine and neck and I can't move.

Panic. Panic. Oh god, _panic. _Has he paralyzed me? Has he snapped my spine?

For one terrible, truly terrible moment, I think he's snapped my spine and paralyzed me because pain is pounding me and I can't move. And I'd rather be dead than be paralyzed. Not being able to move—to use my powers—to run—it's a fate worse than death, in my eyes. But it turns out it's only the panic that momentarily paralyzed me and I'm able to slowly stagger to my feet…just as Sam soars up ahead of me to try and grab Steve and _Bucky grabs one of his wings and rips it off._

Okay, _what _is with him and his newfound love for ripping things off that really should _not _be ripped off?

Sam drops like a stone and I scream, "SAM!" while lunging for the edge. I watch him fall, spinning wildly, jerking, and he's getting smaller and smaller. I close my eyes, feeling like I'm going to vomit. A few seconds pass where Sam's vanished and all I can hear is silence and my own thundering heart…but then I hear Sam suddenly speak into the ear pierce, breathless. "I made it—I landed—I'm fine—but you're on your own, kid! _Get Steve_!"

"I'm not a kid!" I yell back rudely but relief, sweet and glorious, rushes through me and I close my eyes for just a nanosecond. Sam is alive. He's landed on _something_. Thank god.

Then I spin around to see Bucky's gone. "Steve!" I yell into the wind and lean over to where he was hanging…but he's gone. Okay, relief time is over—panic time is back. I frantically search the skies below us. "Steve?" I shout again, my voice trembling a bit. I start to shake as I keep searching, even though I know he'll be long out of sight if he's fallen. _Has_ he fallen? If he's fallen, all is lost. He'll be dead, the microchip will be gone, Project Insight will kill millions of people, and I'll be trapped alone on this helicarrier with a murderous Winter Soldier. My chest starts to burn in panic and I get to my feet, looking around wildly for some way out of this hell. Did I actually think this mission was going to be cake?

I'm a moron.

"Victoria!" comes Steve's voice from behind me and I whirl to see him jogging up to me from behind. How did he get up? Well, he's Captain America. I shouldn't be surprised. He can probably walk on his fingers or something. And then—I don't know what I'm thinking; it's not even _me _thinking, it's the even stronger relief controlling me—I fling myself at him, hugging him so hard that I can't breathe for a moment. My face is buried in his chest and I inhale for a moment—he smells like mown grass and clean cotton, like he always did, even after being through a fight. He freezes and I immediately let go, leaping away, face burning. I've hugged Steve numerous times before (much to the chagrin of nosy ladies on the block who didn't think it was appropriate for a girl to be hugging a boy so much…though they didn't care as much when I hugged Steve than when I hugged Bucky, since Steve didn't actually seem like a real man to them but Bucky did) but not once since I've been re-acquainted with him.

_You just _love _embarrassing yourself, don't you, Fizzy? You should make a career out of it. It would probably pay better than Official Street Kid. _

"We need to go," says Steve urgently (thankfully he's not mentioning my strange display of affection) and we take off, sprinting for real this time. I don't know where Bucky's gone and it's making me extremely nervous. Why did he disappear? Why didn't he just also throw me off the edge and be done with us all? Where is he hiding?

I don't like people who hide. It's a cowardly thing to do. I'm half tempted to call out and say, "Where are you? Come and fight!" but I don't think goading him is really the best course of action at the moment. For once, I'll keep my mouth shut and not stupidly initiate a fight.

Just this once, though. No guarantees for later.

Steve wrenches open a door in the glass structure and we pound up a set of metal steps that lead to a metal walkway high in the air. We reach the top and Steve freezes to a stop. I slam right into him because I've been more focused on my feet than where he's going. Rubbing my forehead (what is he made out of, cement?), I step to his side—and freeze as well. My stomach turns to liquid and I feel a bit wheezy again.

It's Bucky.

He's standing at the other end of the metal bridge, right in front of the entrance to the control panel. I didn't get a good look at him earlier when he was attacking Steve and throwing people off helicarriers like a wild man, but here he is, standing stock still and staring at us. Glaring at us. He's not wearing a face mask and his hair is blowing about his face slightly from the powerful fans whirling above in the ceiling. The dark soot smudged around his eyes is gone but he has several cuts on his face and deep shadows under his eyes. His eyes which look creepily _empty_ as he glares at us. No, in fact, it's not even glaring…it's more like _sullen staring_. It's angry but it's vacant and empty at the same time. Almost like a confused, angry, petulant child who doesn't _understand _why he's in trouble but he knows he is in trouble and he wants to lash out.

"Bucky," says Steve sadly but seriously, "don't make me do this. You _know _us."

Bucky merely keeps staring at us, making no move to show us that Steve's words have any impact on him.

"Sorry, Victoria," says Steve. For a moment, I don't know what he means. I blink. "Wha—?" I start, when Steve shoves me, hard. I teeter backwards, arms wind-milling wildly for a moment, reaching out to grab onto _anything_—

And then I flip over the railing and fall. There's no time to scream. No time for anything. I slam into the sloping glass ground beneath me and stars explode in front of my eyes. A squealed hiss of pain escapes my clenched teeth and automatic tears of pain burst from my eyes as I moan and slowly turn over. The side I've landed on is throbbing with pain, like I've been hit with a hundred baseball bats repeatedly. I'm going to _kill _Steve for this. _Just you wait, Rogers. _

I focus my gaze on the walkway high above and realize a furious fight is going on. Steve shoved me just as he send his shield flying at Bucky and now they're spinning, jabbing, punching, kicking…fighting like there's no tomorrow.

And, if Project Insight is successful, there possibly _won't _be a tomorrow—for a couple million people, at least.

I'm mesmerized for another few seconds because their fight is just as skilled and amazing as before. "Steve! Parcel!" comes Agent Hill's voice, patchy and a little static-y over my ear piece. "Status update!"

"We're—we're getting there!" I say loudly, because Steve is a little too busy getting his butt kicked and alternately kicking butt to reply. "We've just—encountered a minor setback—"

"What does that mean?" Agent Hill demands.

"Bu—The Winter Soldier is here," I say and then I roll over with a cry as Bucky slams into the ground right where I've been laying. Steve leaps down too and then they're fighting, punching and lunging. I get to my feet and stagger back as Steve shoves me behind him. Bucky pulls out a gun and shoots at us twice but Steve deflects with his shield and then Bucky tosses the gun away and dives at Steve. I don't know what he wants—to get the micro-card or to get _me_? Either way, his plan is to kill Steve first, apparently.

The card falls out of Steve's hand as Bucky tackles him and I dive for it just as Steve wraps an arm around Bucky's neck, another arm pinning Bucky's metal arm down, and uses his legs to wrap them around Bucky. All in all, it's a fully body stranglehold and Bucky struggles furiously, trying to wrench away from Steve, but slowly his face turns pink and then red and then purple.

"Steve, you're killing him!" I yell, backing away with the card in my sweaty palms. "Stop!"

Steve lets go just as Bucky's body goes limp and his eyes closed. Is he dead?

"He's just passed out," says Steve, shoving his body off of him and clambering to his feet. He walks toward me and holds his hand out for the card. I press it into his palm and he says, "Thanks. Keep an eye on him," and then he starts climbing back up to where the control panel is.

The next part is my mistake. I admit this. I mess up—_badly_. I forget the cardinal rule of fighting: never take your eye off your opponent…even if they _look _dead or passed out. You don't go near them and you don't take your eyes off them until you put a bullet in their head or a dagger in their throat. I can't tell you how many times I've seen a fight go south _fast_ because the "victor" gets too close to their fallen opponent or takes their eye off him—and next thing you know, the fallen guy is opening their eyes, grabbing the victor, and slitting his throat open.

Nasty business.

I know this rule. I'm always careful to follow this rule. But for some reason, I forget this rule now and turn my back on Bucky. He's clearly passed out and I want to watch Steve, to see what he does. Which is why I miss Bucky waking up—or was he ever passed out at all? Was it all an act?—and getting to his feet and shooting Steve in the back leg.

"No!" I cry, whirling around to face Bucky, just as Steve lets out a cry of pain above. I hold my palms out towards Bucky, tensed in a defensive position, but I don't know if I'm threatening Bucky or trying to appeal to him. "Bucky, please stop," I plead. "You can't do this. You _know _us."

He throws me a brief look full of barely-controlled rage and then turns and shoots Steve again. Steve lets out another cry, this one more piercing, and that's when I launch at Bucky. It's a stupid thing to do, of course; he's ten times stronger than me because he's also some sort of super-soldier, like Steve. But my powers give me an advantage. As I throw myself at him, I smash my hands together and he staggers back a step, looking dazed suddenly, as if his head has been smashed between two walls. This gives me all the time I need to leap onto him and then when he regains his consciousness a few seconds later, we're fighting—only it's a very strange fight. Not like him and Steve, fighting like two real warriors. This is more like me clinging to him like a vicious howler monkey and trying to bite and scratch him everywhere I can while he tries to yank me off his person. But he's underestimating just how ferociously I can cling when I put my mind to it. It also feels like he's been strangely…_gentle_? No, gentle isn't the right word…but I sense that he's not being as violent as he can be. Is it because he has to _acquire _me rather than kill me? Is he trying not to destroy the merchandise?

The thought fuels my fire and I try to poke my fingers into his eyes (not hard enough to blind—just hard enough to make him stumble) but before I can, he flings me off and throws me against a beam on the far wall. I hit it with a clang and slide to the floor. Pain radiates down my spine. Dammit. This isn't fun at all. I don't like getting my butt kicked, I like to _do _the butt kicking. My vision is a little wobbly, but before I can get to my feet, the sound of explosions and shrieking, groaning metal and glass rips throughout the helicarrier.

Alarmed, I look up—and dive out of the way just as a huge metal beam falls from the ceiling and falls on top of Bucky, pinning him to the floor. I stagger forward, unsure of what I'm even planning on doing, and now grass is cracking and shattering all around us and metal walkways are falling, as are huge metal beams. The helicarrier is being blown apart. This can only mean one thing: Steve's managed to somehow switch the micro-cards and Agent Hill has gotten control of the helicarriers and is now having them blasted from the sky.

Two thoughts hit me in succession:

_We're going to die,_

and

_At least we've saved the world._

Win some, lose some. It's the way of the world. I'm not exactly thrilled to be dying—but at least I'm dying having achieved something. And I won't die alone; I'll die with my two best friends next to me. We're not exactly _best friends _at the moment, if you know what I mean, but what can be more fitting than Bucky, Steve, and I all somehow making it to the twenty-first century…only to die together, on the same day, at the same moment? Maybe it'll be like history righting its wrongs. Fixing its mistakes.

I hope hell has a poetry café for me.

Steve falls from the metal walkway to the ground below and he grabs the beam that's crushing Bucky to try and lift it off of him. I dart forward and help out. He lifts from one side and I use my powers, straining and sweating, head pounding, to hover-lift the beam from the other side and together we manage to move it enough so that Bucky can crawl out from under it. We let the beam crash to the floor and a wave of terrible exhaustion washes through me, sapping me of all my energy. I stumble back a step. My legs suddenly feel a bit like a custard cream.

Bucky staggers to his feet and then Steve, who's standing a bit bent over as if his stomach hurts, says, "You know us, Bucky."

"No, I don't!" yells Bucky, sounding deranged, and he throws himself at Steve, slamming his fist into his face.

Steve, for his part, doesn't even attempt to defend himself. He takes the blow and then turns back to Bucky, one eye blackened, and says, "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. My name is Steve Rogers and her name is Victoria Marsden. You've known both of us since you were young."

A huge chunk of the ceiling suddenly falls and crashes through the floor between where Steve and Bucky stand and where I stand. My foot slips and I tumble forward, teetering dangerously for a moment, screaming, and Steve shouts, "VICTORIA!" Something slams into my gut and I fly backwards, hitting the ground _hard_. The breath is knocked out of me and I sit up, groaning, and realize it's Steve's shield that's laying next to me. He's saved my life; by throwing his shield at me, he knocked me back and stopped me from falling. I grab the shield and shakily stand, trying to find a way to get around the huge hole that's stopping me from reaching Bucky and Steve. The wind is howling in my ears and whipping my hair past my face, I can smell smoke, and all I can hear is the deafening sound of glass and metal ripping and tearing and falling and crashing and the engines blowing and explosions tearing through the helicarrier. We're going down and we're not going to be able to get to ground alive.

I see Bucky launch himself at Steve and pounce on him, pinning him down. "Stop!" I shout but the rushing wind steals my voice, turning it into silence almost immediately.

"And you're my MISSION!" I hear Bucky scream as he furiously punches Steve once—twice—thrice—multiple times in the face, on and on and on until I want to be sick. I can't quite see Steve's face from here but he's not fighting back—_why isn't the fool fighting back?!_—and I can only imagine what being punched that many times by a super-soldier can do to your face. Very ugly and painful things, I imagine.

"BUCKY! STEVE!" I scream as Bucky raises his fist one more time and then freezes with his fist drawn back, kneeling on top of Steve. And those are the last words I have a chance to say because suddenly something extremely hard (and I'm talking hundreds of pounds of weight type of hard) slams into my head. Red pain flashes through me and I pass out almost immediately. My vision fades to dark and I fall forward, my arm getting slashed by a jagged edge of glass, and the last thing my consciousness recalls before hurtling out of the helicarrier and into freefall is someone distantly screaming my name and the feel of my fingers losing their grip on the cool metal of the shield…

* * *

He had two missions: to kill the man from the bridge and to acquire the girl, Asset 56. They had both escaped his grasp for far too long and he'd already been egregiously punished for his previous failures. He wasn't going to let that happen anymore. He was going to finish his work here even if it killed _him _to get it done. He had to obey. Failing a third time was not an option.

And everything had been going fine. He'd ignored the girl, who was wild with her powers but weak and unskilled in fighting, and fought the blond man. The blond man had managed to get the card up to the control room and switch it, thus ruining HYDRA's plan. This enraged him but not as much as the thought of the man _living _did. So even though HYDRA's plan had failed, he was full of so much rage that he knew he was going to finish his mission anyway. This man and this woman, they'd made a fool and a failure of him. They would pay. He would kill the man and then, when the blond man was finished, he would get the stupid little girl and make his escape. He'd bring Asset 56 back to HYDRA as proof that he was still a good soldier. And if HYDRA was done, demolished…well, he could still find some use for the little rat. She had powerful forces inside her and he could bend her will to match his, could use her to his own advantage. He was a master of pain and making a tiny little thing like her follow his will—it wouldn't be a problem.

But everything had gone south almost immediately. He'd fought the blond man and, once again, the man was more skilled than any human he'd ever encountered. It was baffling but he had no time to dwell on it now. He'd been stupid enough to lose the micro-card. And then he'd gotten pinned under a falling beam. Pain had radiated through his body and try as he might, he couldn't lift the beam (even _he _wasn't that strong) to free himself. For the first time, a little bit of panic entered his mind, much the way it would in a trapped wild animal. What would he do now—?

And then, to his intense astonishment, the girl and the man had worked together to help free him. He didn't understand why but he didn't question it, scrambling to his feet immediately, shaking off the pain in his legs. Did the fools think he'd show them mercy just because they helped them? Helping him had been _their _mistake. The Winter Soldier did not show mercy. He never even _thought _to show mercy.

But then the man had looked at him with his blue eyes and had begun speaking. Lies poured out of his mouth, just as HYDRA had told him they would. "He'll tell you anything," they had said, "to make you come over to his side. Do not fall for his tricks."

But he couldn't stop hearing him.

_You know us._

_ My name is Steve Rogers._

_ Her name is Victoria Marsden._

_ Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._

Fury built up inside him like a molten-hot tornado. He didn't want to hear these lies. He didn't want to hear this strange man with the blue eyes that pierced through him tell him any more slippery lies that made strange images rise in his mind and confused him. So he attacked him, screaming, "No you're not!" and "No, I don't!" while landing blow upon blow on his face. The man staggered back but did nothing to defend himself, which made him even more furious. Why wasn't the man fighting back? He could hear the girl yelling at them in the background, pleading, calling him that stupid name—

_"Bucky?"_

Something crashed behind them and he whirled in time to see the girl with the golden-auburn hair, Asset 56, scream and nearly slip off the edge and into the abyss. A momentary flash of panic resounded in his chest and then the blond man threw his shield at the girl, knocking her back. He tried to convince himself that the panic had been because she was his mission and if she fell, he would have failed in his mission to retrieve her. He didn't actually care if she fell or not.

He spun back around to see the blond man—Steve—somberly say, "I won't fight you. You're my friend." The man's eye was blackened. This enraged the Winter Soldier even more and he suddenly lunged at the man, pouncing on him and pinning him. "And you're my _mission_!" he shouted and then he began pounding on the man's face. He could hear Asset 56—the girl—Victoria?—screaming at him but she sounded distant, far away, as if she were under water…

"Then finish it," choked out the blond man, his face bruised and bloody, unbelievably _smiling_ slightly. "Because…I'm with you till the end of the…line."

_I'm with you till the end of the line._

It was like lightning had struck him. He froze, his fist raised in the air, as a feeling of being submerged in ice and then fire engulfed him. He—he had images—falling—someone screaming his name—the girl staring at him—

Did he _know_ these people?

Suddenly a huge shrieking sound resounded from above them and, with an almighty crash, a huge chunk of the ceiling fell. He leaped back, staring wildly around in shock as the piece smashed through the floor. A falling beam smashed into the girl's head and he saw her eyes slide halfway closed before she fell through the hole. Spinning, he saw the blond man also fall as another falling beam smashed through the floor right next to him. The man and the young woman, they both fell to the water hundreds of feet below and he watched as if they were in slow motion, the shield slipping from the girl's loose grasp and glinting in the sun as it dropped. They were gone. They were dead. He'd failed—and succeeded—in his mission.

_"Bucky?"_

_ "You know us."_

_ "I'm with you till the end of the line."_

Pain stabbed through his gut and he suddenly made a decision, diving out of the hole and into the river hundreds of feet below.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Sorry for the waterworks ahead! It needed to be written. But don't worry, things will be getting snappy again next chapter (hopefully)! Thanks for reading, reviewing, etc.**

* * *

My eyes are closed but golden light filters in through my closed eyelids. I'm laying on something soft…a bed. I'm laying on a real-life bed. A soft, gentle breeze hits my forehead, which feels sort of sticky and sweaty, and I can hear…

Music. Soft, crooning, gentle music. The kind I've privately danced to in my room a hundred times, imagining a gentleman's hands around my waist as he dips me low and spins me in a circle…

A tiny sigh escapes my lips. I'm home. I'm laying in my own bed, in my own room, and when I open my eyes, I'll see old drawings of Mr. Super and Lady Liberty tacked to my ceilings. The breeze is blowing in through the window and my faded floral curtains will be stirring slightly. Maybe I'll go out to the kitchen and see my father sitting at the kitchen table, ignoring me, but reading a newspaper and I'll kiss his forehead and be extra-affectionate because I've had a good sleep and I'm in a good mood and maybe we can mend things between us.

But when I try to open my eyes to see my room…it's like the happy feeling is getting further and further away and my eyes won't open. I try to open my mouth to call someone for help—my mother—my father—Steve—_anyone_—

The happy feeling is gone. The golden light pressing through my lids is gone and so is the cool breeze. I feel hot and sticky and uncomfortable now but…my consciousness is going dark…

I drift.

There's darkness all around me. I can't see anything. Normally this would be cause for _Oh my god, am I blind? _panic. But somehow I know I'm not. Sometimes I try to claw my way through the numbing darkness to wake up. I wake long enough to realize I'm alive but then aching, throbbing pain overwhelms me. My head pounds and my body feels like someone's drained me of all my blood and vital fluids. A burning sensation creeps up my chest, right there in the densest part of my chest and throat and lungs…

So I back away from the feeling. Trying to wake up hurts too much. I don't like it. I want my mother.

I go back to drifting. At least when I drift in the darkness, I can't feel anything as much…

But I can hear.

Music. The feeling and light and breeze have all gone but the music is still there, reaching to me in the darkness.

_Come back_, it says. _We're waiting for you._

Wouldn't it be easier to just die? There's no one for me anymore.

_That's not true. _

I'm alone.

_We need you._

My conscious prickles, poking annoyingly at me. Am I thinking of giving in to the pain? Of slipping away and dying? No. I'm not that weak. I won't do that. I'm a fighter. I've survived this long. I've been kidnapped. Frozen. Beaten. On my own. Starving. Attacked. Attacked again and again and again. Had to make difficult choices. Slept with a knife under my pillow and one eye wide awake. I haven't lived in two centuries, passed multiple decades, to give up now.

Not when my two most important people have somehow followed me to this century.

I wrench my eyes open. They feel sticky, like someone's glued them shut, and for a moment I can only blink and stare up at the bright white ceiling up above. A strange feeling of disappointment washes through me. I know I was never going to see my posters tacked up to the ceiling…but a part of me was hoping I would anyway. That this would all have been one terrible, _very long_, nightmare and that I was waking up back home.

_You don't have that kind of luck, Fizzy._

"Well, well," comes a voice from a few feet to my right. "Look who's awake."

It takes a few minutes because everything in my body hurts like a hell but eventually I managed to prop myself up a bit to see a bed adjacent to mine, a few feet away. Steve is laying in it, wide awake and grinning crookedly at me. There's a portable music player sitting on a table next to him and that's where the music is softly coming from.

I groan. "Great," I say. "I'm stuck in a room with you." I have no escape now if he wants to start discussing deep things. I'm bed-ridden.

His grin gets even wider; he's like the cat that swallowed the canary. "Don't give me any of that, Victoria," he says. "_You _were the one who threw a fit when they tried to put you in a separate room."

I think for a moment, dubiously. Hmmm. I don't remember this. Everything after something conked me on the head is one big blank. Steve could be lying…but Steve never lies. "Are you sure?" I ask anyway.

"Kicking, screaming, scratching people, the whole deal," says Steve. "Woke up half the hospital, I'm pretty sure. Used your powers and broke a few things." He imitates me then, making his voice very high-pitched and girly-sounding. "_'No! I have to stay with Steve!'_"

I do _not _sound like that!

Do I sound like that?

Man, has my voice been ruining my tough image this whole time? I suddenly have something new to worry about.

I'm also blushing a little bit because it sounds like I was screaming because I had to be near Steve or I'd die—but I'm pretty sure I was just screaming because I didn't want to leave him alone or the Wint—

"Hang on," I gasp suddenly, as everything that happened before I got hit in the head comes rushing back to me: the mission, the helicarriers, the fight with Bucky. "How did we even get here? Where's Bucky? What _happened_?"

Steve's smile drops off his face. "I don't know," he says.

I give him the most threatening look I can considering I'm bed-ridden and in pain and can no more hop up and hurt him than a fly can (at least not in _this _condition). Plus, I'm wearing a hospital gown which I'm _pretty _sure is open from the back. Embarrassing. "Steve."

"I'm being honest," he says. (When is he not?) "The ceiling of the helicarrier caved in and you fell and then I fell a few seconds after. I hit the water and I blacked out. Bucky gave me a hell of a beating. And then…then I remember being on a riverbank for a few moments…" He frowns as if he's in deep thought. "But my nearest memory is of being rushed into the hospital. Sam says some hikers found us on the bank of the Potomac, across from the Triskelion. Or what's _left _of the Triskelion."

"I beg your pardon?" I ask delicately. What's happened to the Triskelion? Was there some _other _war going on that I wasn't informed about?

"Our helicarrier crashed into it," says Steve. "We fell out right before it happened."

Look at that! Looks like good luck does work out in my favor sometimes. I fell hundreds of feet into a river and nearly drowned but hey, I _might_ have been crushed to powder after crashing into the Triskelion!

"And Bucky?" I ask again, trying to sound casual. Trying not to ogle at the deep purple bruises covering Steve's face. He looks like a heroic blueberry.

"No sign of him," says Steve almost too quickly, like he's trying to sound casual as well. "No…no body, if that's what you mean."

It _is _what I meant and was too afraid to ask—but Steve's understood me anyway. He always did have the knack for getting what I meant. It feels weird to be slipping back into this, him understanding the deeper meanings behind my smaller words. I look away, thinking about what he's told me. So we survived because we were found on the banks of the river. Well…I was fully passed out when I fell. There's no way I could have swum. And Steve sounds like he was out of it when he hit the water as well. He couldn't have dragged me out. And yet…here we are.

Two people, pulled from the depths.

One assassin, missing.

Doesn't take a genius to figure it out.

"Bucky pulled us out," I say quietly, not looking at Steve. "You know that, right? It was him."

Steve sighs heavily. "Yeah, I…had my suspicions. Not sure why he did it…"

"Perhaps he remembered you," I say delicately, "in between rounds of obliterating your face?"

Steve shoots me a look and I can feel it even though I'm studiously staring at the wall opposite from me. I resist the urge to smile. "Thanks, Victoria," he says sarcastically. But then, in a more normal tone— "You're right, of course. He probably… Something in him probably did recognize. Otherwise he wouldn't have saved us. But then he ran off. He needs help."

"And you're going to give it to him," I say. It's not a question. It's a statement.

"Yes," he says.

"I'm coming," I say. Also not a statement. He'd better not argue on this one. I'll kill him.

"Yes," he says again.

Well. There's nothing else to say, is there? We're going to go after Bucky. We're going to find him. And then what? He clearly escaped. He doesn't want to see us. But…but he needs to be brought home and made to be himself again. Right?

Suddenly I'm a little unsure if what we're doing is the right thing. _I _didn't like getting dragged away from my life. _I_ didn't like being forced to resume my old personality. _I _didn't—

No. Wait. What am I saying? Bucky's been _brainwashed. _Of course he needs help. And I clearly need the sleep. Exhaustion and pain is turning me into a philosopher when I don't need to be one. Already my chest feels a little like it's on fire. No doubt a side effect from almost drowning. I wonder how much water I accidentally swallowed. Probably a lot. And my whole body just feels…empty. Like I've used up all my energy. And yet there's this greedy feeling tugging at me, nudging at my mind, making me want to use my powers again and again and again. Are they going to consume me? I need to learn how to control…the urge to use them more and more…

* * *

I spend three days in the hospital. Steve is discharged after only one day. I guess his body heals faster, being a serum-injected super-soldier. Once the general population learns that Captain America is in the hospital hundreds and hundreds of bouquets and presents and teddy bears sporting the good ol' red, white, and blue start showing up at the hospital. People also start gathering outside the hospital with signs. They don't quite know what Captain America's done (since, in fact, to the general public it just sort of looks like a massive building got destroyed while large aircraft fell apart midair, causing tons of damage) but they're sure it was heroic. I also hear some of the nurses whispering about how a few more jaded and cynical people (or conspiracy nuts) think the Captain was somehow involved in something sinister. No one really knows the truth. Steve orders all the presents and candy donated to local children's shelters. No one knows what to do with the flowers so he ends up getting them donated as well. Who knew you can donate _flowers_?

Steve doesn't want to leave me alone in the hospital initially but I force him to. He's worried about me, I know he is. He's _this close _to sitting by my side for three days straight but I finally tell him that I'm fine being alone and it's not like I can go anywhere anyway. Where would I get, escaping from a hospital in a hospital gown with no shoes?

Actually, let's not ask that question. I bet I could get very far.

At my firm (and, yes I admit, slightly cold) insistence that I don't need him watching over me, his face finally closes off so I can't see what he's thinking and he says, "Whatever you say," and leaves. His tone is respectful but I still feel like he's upset and then I feel wretched. And _then _I feel angry at myself for feeling wretched. Will this mess of feelings never end? Sometimes I want to hurt Steve. But when I do hurt him, I feel all twisty on the inside, like someone's rearranged my organs. I want to cry. I want to run away. I want to punch a wall.

Instead, I do the only thing I can do: angrily eat as many free hospital cups of disgusting orange Jell-O that I can and snap at the poor nurses. They'd totally be justified in stabbing me with a needle, if they choose to do so.

But no one wants to put me out of my misery.

On the third day, I'm cleared to be discharged. Steve hasn't shown up since I told him to leave—I have no idea what he's been up to, though I assume it's important, considering what's gone down in the past week—and I'm torn between disappointment and happiness. But on the third day, when I'm being discharged after having put on my old clothes, he's sitting in the waiting room, hands folded in his lap, looking down at the floor, politely ignoring the not-so-polite blatant stares he's getting from other people in the room (including a young man with a very large and bloody gash on his arm…does anyone want to help that lad?).

I pause in the doorway and observe him for a moment and then he looks up and sees me and he smiles. It's like he can't help it; no matter how much I try to push him away, he's _happy _to see me. I don't deserve a friend like Steve Rogers.

"Let's go," he says. I follow him out to his motorcycle, ignoring the aches and pains that are wracking my body and throbbing on my sore head (the doctors told me I was lucky to get hit in that certain spot—had I been hit elsewhere, I may have never woken up, which doesn't actually seem like such a bad fate right now but whatever). I'm not going to complain about them for even a second.

I straddle the motorcycle and then say, "Wait. I need to do something." I tell him where to go. He doesn't ask any questions, for which I'm thankful. I don't think I can answer any. He simply tells me to hold on tight and then we take off. We arrive twenty-five minutes later and I hop off the motorcycle, tripping over my semi-weakened legs for just a moment before righting myself. _Careful, Fizz. Don't you want to wait at least _one _hour after being discharged before you humiliate yourself?_

"You don't have to follow me," I say to Steve, who's getting off his motorcycle.

"Yes, I do," he says, walking up beside me. He's wearing a brown leather jacket and a navy blue button down with khaki slacks. He dresses like an old man. This needs to be remedied.

"You don't trust me?" I ask. My voice is flat.

"I trust you with my life," he says simply, "but I don't trust you with your own."

Which is maybe why I turn and silently walk into the alley and let him follow me. He's right. I know he's right and he knows he's right. If he didn't come after me…what would really stop me from disappearing into the crowd on the street at the other end of the alley and then disappearing for forever? I want to find Bucky but the temptation to disappear is still tugging at me. It's all I've known for the past four years. It's hard to get rid of, the fear and paranoia…

I walk up and down the empty alley, knowing that who I'm looking for isn't here. Steve is standing a few feet away and watching me curiously but he doesn't ask any questions. The alley is littered with garbage and has faded graffiti on the walls but it's largely abandoned, save for a large Dumpster down on one end. This turf isn't home to anyone any more. I walk down the alley and stare at a bit of the wall next to the floor. One of the bricks is loose, the corner poking out like a jagged edge. I stand there, my back facing Steve, and stare down at that bit of wall. This is the area. This is where I did it. This is where I knelt and did it, a small crowd around me, watching and waiting, silent. Unusual for an event like this. But there was no raucous laughing or yelling this night.

I close my eyes.

What happens to the bodies of the homeless when they die? Does anyone report them? Are they left to rot and decompose? Where do the bones go? Do the police cart them away? An unnamed, unclaimed Jane Doe or John Doe? Where are they buried? In some mass gravesite reserved for those who won't be missed?

Tears burn my eyes.

_I'm sorry, Will. _

I stand there for a few more minutes and in that moment, a part of my shield is stripped away as I bare myself to the sins of what I've done in the past. When I turn back to Steve I know I'm a slightly different person. "We can go," I say, wiping my eyes. Steve has the grace (or instinct for safety) to not comment on m tears and when we get back on the motorcycle, I feel strangely light. And no, it's not because I've lost five pounds during the past week. (Though that probably contributes to it.) The wind makes my hair stream back as we ride and the air is cool tonight and despite the aches and pains in my body, I feel slightly more peaceful than before.

We arrive back at Steve's apartment. We don't run into Agent 13. I think she's probably relocated by now. Her cover has been blown so there's no point in her still living next to Steve. It's only been a few days since I've been in here but it already feels like a hundred years have passed since I first saw Steve standing in that corner. Someone's been in here and cleaned the place up, replaced the windows and wiped up the shattered glass and bloodstains Fury left on the floor. The air is cool and slightly stale and the apartment is shrouded in shadows.

"Looks like you'll have to move," I say casually.

"Why?" Steve asks.

"Bucky knows where you live and he's out there," I remind him

"All the more reason to stay here," he says. "What if he wants to come find us?"

"What if he goes back to HYDRA and they come after you again?" I demand.

"Do you really think he would do that?" Steve asks. "He saved our lives."

"Did the serums addle your brain as well as your body?" I snap. "This is asking for trouble."

"I'm not going to move," Steve says firmly. "Bucky—I don't know what's going on in his mind. I don't know what they've done to him. But the fact that he saved us…it means there's hope for him. What if he wants to come find us? Talk to us? He won't know how to find us."

He has a point…but I hate admitting it. It's a dangerous game he's playing—juggling the chances that Bucky will come to wave a white flag…with the chances that he'll return to kill us both. I don't know what made Bucky save us but I hope it only gets stronger with time so he can return to who he was.

"Right," I finally say stiffly. "Well. When are we setting out?"

"We still have to wait a week or two," says Steve. "I have business to clear out here. We can't just take off. It implicates us in what HYDRA did."

"There's no _way _they could blame us for what HYDRA tried to do," I snarl. My fingers flex as I think about Project Insight. Just let them _try _to blame me for HYDRA's crimes. I'm a _casualty _of their crimes, not a perpetrator.

"There's no telling," says Steve. "This whole SHIELD thing…it's been a mess. The government, the country, the world…everyone is panicking. Natasha dumped _all _of SHIELD's secrets online and now the whole world knows that SHIELD was infiltrated by an enemy organization. That's all they know but it's enough to cause major problems, obviously."

"And Pierce?" I ask. A suppressed shudder of rage runs through me like tremor at the thought of him. If he's still alive, I'll hunt him down like the animal he is myself.

"Fury got him," Steve says grimly.

Good old Director Fury. Although I'm a bit disappointed I didn't get to kill Pierce myself. After all HYDRA put me through, I deserved my revenge. Still, exposing them to the world is revenge enough, I suppose.

"And Sam and Natasha?" I ask. I'm not surprised that Natasha didn't come to see me but I admit, I'm a little surprised (and okay, a wee bit hurt) that Sam didn't come to visit me in the hospital.

Steve hesitates for a moment. "Natasha…Natasha blew all of her covers just so she could expose HYDRA. She let all the information about her go online as well." His tone is full of respect and admiration. I can see why. The Black Widow does not seem like the kind of woman who wants anyone knowing anything about her personalities or past—and now the whole world knows. "She's laying low for a while, I don't know where, until this dies down," he says. "She's made a lot of enemies over the years. This puts her in a lot of danger. And Sam wanted to visit but he had to quickly go out of town to visit relatives who were worried about them. To, you know, reassure them that he was alright. He'll be back soon, though."

"And what about me?" I finally ask. My legs are aching a lot now so I collapse on his sofa, tucking them under me and biting back a groan of pain. I will not show it.

"You're going to find Bucky with me," says Steve, "and then…then…you can…do whatever you want," he finishes lamely. "I mean, like, go to school…get a job…"

"I can't do any of those things," I say in frustration, glaring at the glossy and dusty flat-screen TV across from me.

"Yes, you can," says Steve earnestly, sitting down on the sofa opposite from me. "You're still young. You're only, what, twenty? You have the rest of your life ahead of you."

"So do you," I snap. I gesture to his apartment. "And what have _you _done with yourself when you're not saving the world? Look at your apartment! It looks like a dead man lives here! It's so damn depressing! You're still young, too! Sort of."

He looks down at his hands and doesn't respond. I bite my lip and look away, knowing how he feels. He has no response…and why would he have one? We're both puzzle pieces that don't fit. One foot in a past era, the other foot in this era, never completely belonging anywhere. Both of us with powers and abilities that set us apart. Both of us too out-of-place to go to school and get jobs and try to fit into this world. We've been cut away from too much. We've missed too many people. I can no more picture Steve randomly getting a job than I can picture myself going back to school. Why? What would be the point? Who would I connect with? What future man could I ever explain my past to? What friends could I have anything in common with?

"I'm going to join you," I say quietly.

He looks up. "What?"

"I'm going to join you," I repeat, feeling awkward. "Like…in fighting crime. Missions. All that jazz." I feel really dorky saying it—like _Golly, I'm going to be a superhero now!_—but I have no other way of wording it.

"Victoria, no," he says. "You _hate _fighting."

I smile a crooked smile. Silly Steve. Has he not caught on by now? "I hate wars," I say, "but I live for fights. How do you think I've spent the last four years?"

"You did that because you _had _to," he says. "You don't have to do that anymore. You don't have to be homeless anymore. To fight or steal or—"

"Or kill," I say bluntly, knowing he's stumbling over the words. Having trouble picturing me, Victoria Marsden, killing people. "That's the thing, Steve—it's all I know now. I can't go to school or get a job. I don't care about this century. It doesn't make sense to me and I don't want it to. I'd rather use my powers for something useful. I can be helpful to SHIELD. Or whatever's left of SHIELD." It's not like I ever really had talents before all this. Steve was good at art and getting his butt kicked, Bucky was good at working on cars and kicking butt, and I was good at…being a wallflower. Hiding. Sometimes it feels like cruel fate that I ended up decades in the future only to keep hiding.

"You're only twenty," he says quietly.

"The same age as you when you became Captain America," I say just as quietly.

And there it is. We're at an impasse. I know he wants to save me from this life—this life of fighting and missions and doing violent things. Either because he thinks I can't handle it or because he's afraid for my life. He wants me to magically go to college and get a job and somehow be a normal girl. But deep down, he realizes this is easier said than done. He's been awake for a few years and he himself hasn't done much with his personal life. And he knows my powers _would _be very useful in a fight, if I trained properly…without threats and beatings this time…

"We'll talk about this later," he says finally. "We have to find Bucky first."

Right. There's a third person out of time somewhere out there. If we ever get Bucky Barnes back…a motley crew we'll make, the three of us. I close my eyes and picture his face. Cocksure smile, always slightly amused, glinting eyes, confidence on every pane of his handsome face. Then I compare it to the unshaven, sullen, staring man from the helicarrier. It doesn't match it. It doesn't even come _close _to making sense. I'm so lost in thought that I don't even realize Steve's speaking until he nudges me and calls me name.

"Mmmm?" I ask, eyes still closed. Am I daydreaming or resting? Exhaustion is pulling at my consciousness.

"I said, you're only going to come with me to find Bucky if you _talk _to me," he says.

My eyes snap open. "Excuse me?" I demand.

"Victoria, we can't go on another trip while we're fighting!" says Steve in exasperation. Then he pauses. "And I don't even know _why _we're fighting. I mean, I sort of do, but I don't."

"I feel like I don't even know you," I say truthfully. Sort of truthfully. It's partly why.

"_You _don't know _me_?" he says.

"Look at you," I say. "You're some…big shot hero now. You look different. You act different. You're all bossy now."

He laughs incredulously, staring at me as if I've lost my marbles. "Hark who's talking. Have you seen _yourself_ lately? You've chopped your hair short, you wear men's clothing, and you always look…you always look angry and scared," he finishes softly. "That's not the Victoria I remember. But I know you're still _you _underneath, no matter how we've changed. We've all changed. We've all had to go through things that we shouldn't have. Oh, and I think _you're _bossier than me," he adds in a joking tone, probably trying to lighten the mood.

Oh god, are those _tears _pricking at my eyes again? No. No, get back right up in my tear ducts and don't you _dare_ slide down my cheeks.

"I still like the same things," he says. "I still like…art. Drawing. And I'm still a hopeless optimistic, though I think that might change soon." He smiles half-heartedly.

"Don't ever change that," I say automatically. "It's one of the best things about you."

"Why, thank you," he says, smiling a little more authentically. "A compliment? I'm flattered, madam." It's our old joke—calling each other "sir" and "madam." We haven't done it in years but he still remembers. I don't smile. Noticing my still posture, he asks, "What else is it? I know something is bothering you."

I can't say it. I already almost let it slip before and it makes me sound so needy and pathetic.

I _won't _say it.

Mutely, I shake my head no. My lips are sealed. The emotions are rising up in me like a swirling torrent and I can feel my power mixing seamlessly with them. I'm gaining more control in how I dredge them up and use them. I've used them more over the past few days than I have in my whole life.

"Is this about what you said on the way to Sam's house?" he asks.

Dammit. He's getting warmer. Sometimes Steve is too smart for his own good.

"Because I never wanted to choose to leave you," he says quietly.

I close my eyes. He's gotten there. I'm so pathetic. I should never have let it slip past my lips. My whole body is trembling slightly as I try to focus on flattening my emotions and shoving them aside. Breathe. Don't feel. Don't let them show.

"I wish to god I could have come back to you," he says quietly. "I know I chose to crash and leave you. But there was no other way. I promise you—if there _had _been another choice, I'd always have chosen you—"

"You left me." The words escape me in a tiny whisper and I'm shaking now, trying to control myself.

"I know," he says.

"You left me." My mouth trembles and—oh no, it's too late. The floodgates have opened. I promised I'd never cry in front of Steve again but I've broken my promise. Go figure. "You left me—and if you'd been th-there—" The tears are flowing fast and freely now, coating my cheeks and I can't look at him. "If you'd been there—"

_Maybe Zola wouldn't have been able to take me. _

_ Maybe I wouldn't have been kidnapped. _

_ Maybe we could have both grown up at the right time._

_ Maybe…_

"My—my father grew old alone and d-died thinking I was kidnapped," I say, and I'm crying so hard now I can barely get the words out. "I n-never got to say goodbye to him—I never _saw _him again—he never got w-walk me down the aisle or—or see me at his—" My words are pouring out, stammering and shaking and barely coherent because I'm crying so hard I can't see, can't hear, can't think, can't _feel_. I'm seized with the ghosts of memories, the thought of my father never knowing what happened to me. Never getting to say goodbye to him, never getting to make things up with him, him spending the rest of his life alone in silence. The front of my shirt is drenched in tears and I feel like I'm leaking sadness from every opening in my face, deflating like a balloon. I've been posturing for so long, hiding my emotions, pretending like I don't care, but that's all destroyed now. I _do _care. I care so much that I want to scream and break things and cry for years over what I've lost, what I can never get back, no matter _who _I meet in the now, no matter how many of my best friends come back…I can never get the life and the people I've lost for good.

I don't know how long I sit there, shaking with silent sobs, my arms wrapped around my legs and head pressed into the tops of my knees, letting out small sounds of pain and hiccuping alongside my tears, but eventually I realize Steve's arms are around me and I've been leaning on him this whole time.


	13. Chapter 13

I wake up in Steve's bed. Opening my eyes is hard because my tears seem to have crusted them shut. Furiously rubbing them, I slowly sit up and push my hair back from my face. At some point I've lost my pony and now my hair is falling all over my shoulders in choppy lengths (compliments of my superb hack job), glinting golden-auburn in the sunlight that's filtering in through the window and hitting the bed. Hmmm. It looks to be about early morning. I was discharged late afternoon yesterday. I must have fallen asleep while crying and then Steve carried me to his bed while he…slept on the tiny sofa?

Oh my god. How embarrassing.

I stumble to the bathroom and find a brand new toothbrush on the counter. Thoughtful. I take a shower, wash up, and pull on the same clothes I've been wearing since Sam's house. They're not very clean. I think first thing on my list is to get some new clothes—clothes that actually fit. Perhaps…perhaps a dress. I haven't been able to wear one in quite literally decades and a part of me wants to feel like my old self a bit again.

I leave the room and find a note on the kitchen counter.

_Victoria, gone out for a bit, will be back soon. Food in the fridge, read or watch anything you like. DO NOT RUN AWAY. Love, Steve._

He's signed it "love." That's kind of cute. I open his fridge and it's even more pitiful than before, if possible, because we've been away for a few days. Nothing seems edible but I find a slightly mushy banana at the back of the fridge (who refrigerates _bananas_? Is _Steve _bananas?) and manage to force it down for lack of anything better. There's a clock ticking somewhere in the apartment and everything seems too quiet and still. So quiet that I can hear myself swallowing mouthfuls of bruised banana. Awkward. It's also painful to swallow.

Afterward I wander over to his books and study them. He has quite a large collection, actually, with a variety of genres…but I feel too exhausted to start a novel. My whole body is aching, my throat feels a little scratchy, and I want something light. Seeing a basket of magazines laying in the corner, I seize upon it and drag it over to the sofa, stretching across the sofa. Magazines are just the right mix of entertaining and light. Steve has a very strange assortment of magazines and many of them are old and look untouched: _Time, Newsweek, Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly, National Geographic _and a few more obscure looking magazines on art and fishing.

I aimlessly thumb through a few _Entertainment Weekly_'s but I'm not too caught up on what's popular in the media, so not a lot of it makes sense. I abandon them for some sports magazines—but these don't hold my interest. I used to play baseball with Bucky and Steve but I never really cared much for sports. I once attended a baseball game with Steve, when times weren't as rough and his mother was alive, and I was more interested in the hot dogs than the home runs. Besides, I've missed decades of wins and losses, teams forming and re-forming. I don't recognize any names in the magazine. It's like trying to learn algebra when all you know is one plus one equals two. I want to read about hair and makeup or something—things I haven't had the time or luxury to think about in _ages_—but obviously Steve doesn't have anything like that. So I settle for a _Newsweek_, dated from last July. It's old news but most news is old news to me and it's always good to catch up on old news.

Everything in my body hurts and for a moment I set the magazine down on my stomach and close my eyes. Why can't I have useful powers, like the power to immediately heal or…or make food appear out of thin air? I wish I were a super-soldier like Steve…or Bucky. It's not like we have the _facts _about what's been done to Bucky—but he's obviously not a normal human man. He was doing things no average human could do…

I pick up the magazine and resume flipping through it, slowly, lazily. The air in the apartment is warm and I feel sort of drowsy, despite having slept more than usual. I read a few articles on tensions overseas which may or may not even be relevant anymore and then I come across the travel section. There's an article on places across the U.S. to visit in theme with the Fourth of July and Independence Day. Museums, festivals, natural parks… I'm reading about an annual massive Fourth of July barbecue hosted in South Carolina that draws thousands of people when the words: _Washington, D.C. _catch my eye and I glance over at a picture of the museum-type of building with a captain underneath:

_What better place to celebrate the birth, and independence, of the nation than the home of some of the most notable politicians of the free world and the place where America's laws and decisions are made? Despite having notable tourist attractions such as the White House, the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial, the National Air and Space Museum boasts a new exhibit about the man who embodies American spirit himself: Captain America. Titled "The Captain", the exhibit details the journey of Steve Rogers from a small man with great spirit to an even greater hero. The story of Captain America has held the world in rapture since the days of the Greatest Generation to the Millennials of today. Known today as one of the members of the aptly-named "Avengers", Captain America is responsible for saving the lives of American citizens countless times and is known for upholding strong moral standing and values. The exhibit is perfect for a history buff (perhaps your son?), an adventure enthusiast (or your daughter?), or for anyone who wants to enjoy one of the largest air and space museums in the country while reflecting on what it truly means to be an American. Free admission from July 1__st__ to July 6__th__. _

My mouth's fallen open and I can't seem to close it. I ignore all the heroic mumbo-jumbo—I think we all know Steve's a hero, by now—and focus on the fact that there's an exhibit dedicated to him at the Smithsonian. How could Steve not have told me this?

Well—I mean—we _were_ sort of on the run and constantly getting shot at.

Okay, so I can understand why this is something that's not high on his list of things to talk to me about. But I'm still stunned. I don't know why; I already know that Steve's a hero, that he's famous, that everyone knows who he is. Maybe it's the fact that this exhibit talks about his life _before _becoming the Captain and it seems that so few people even care about who Steve Rogers originally was. Or maybe it's the fact that it's in D.C., so close to me.

I'm going to visit it.

I get to my feet and look down at my clothes. They're in bad shape. Oh well—hopefully no one will throw me out for looking like trash. I _need _to go see this exhibit. I have no photos of Steve from before, only my memories, and I'm sure this exhibit will have photos of him before his transformation. I want to see them, want to remember exactly what he looked like. I tie on my shoes and am kind enough to scrawl Steve a note before I leave:

_Steve, I do what I want. Love, Victoria. P.S. Since I know you're now probably going mental thinking I've run away, I assure you: I HAVE NOT RUN AWAY. I've just gone out for a bit of fresh air. I'll be back soon. Don't look for me, you'll never find me anyway. ;)_

I have no car. I don't even know how to drive. (I should get on learning that, no?) But I'm certainly not about to _walk _all the way to the Smithsonian. No thank you. So I do something that doesn't make me feel as bad as it should: I steal some kid's bike.

I mean, I'll give it back!

Probably.

Stealing is in my blood now. I feel only slightly bad. This kid can get another bike. I, on the other hand, have waited decades to re-immerse myself in old memories. And this exhibit looks like the perfect way to do it. I'm sure the kid would totally lend me their bike themselves if they knew what my intentions were. Hopefully. Maybe.

I don't know the way to the Smithsonian but I stop in a hipster café and ask the heavily-pierced girl behind the counter where it is and she gives me directions. Before I leave, she says, "Rad hoodie."

I look down at myself, confused for a moment. I'm wearing the oversized royal blue hoodie I initially picked up with Steve except it'll a little more ragged now. "This old thing?" I ask, astonished.

"Yeah, I love how the stitches are on the outside," she says. "So undone-chic. Who's it by? I think Alexander Wang's done something similar."

I have no idea what the girl is saying and I'm impatient to get to the museum so I hurriedly say, "Yup!" while beaming at her and then hurry out of the café, hopping onto the bike and pedaling madly away, almost hitting a lady with twenty-five poodles around her feet who stops to scream curses after me. Rude. _She's _the one with a walking flood of white fluff around her feet, consuming everything in her path, leaving fur, destruction, and nipped ankles in her wake.

It takes me a while and I'm sweating bullets by the time I arrive (only adding to my unattractiveness, I'm sure) but I get there in the end. I don't know where to leave my bike because I don't have a bike lock so I just lean it against the bike rack and hope that no one will steal it. Who comes to a _museum _to steal things anyway?

Wait. That came out really stupid. Of course people come to museums to steal things.

Who comes to a museum to steal a _bike_? That's the question. I hope I don't find out the answer today.

I head up the steps, hands in my pockets, trying to ignore all the happy and smiling families around me in dorky tourist clothes. I want to smack the smile off of one cheery mom with blonde braids and a neon-yellow t-shirt that reads STEVENSON FAMILY VACATION. Ugh. Some people are so willing to degrade themselves it's embarrassing.

"Ticket, please." A girl at one of several stands that span across the front hall blows a huge bubble with her gum, looking bored, and then pops it.

"But I thought it was fr—" I stop. The magazine was from last July…when the exhibit opened. It's been a year…and they're no longer nice enough to give free admission. A free lunch only lasts for so long.

"Ugh, excuse me!" snaps a pushy woman from behind me in a Southern accent, getting impatient with my dawdling. She roughly shoves me aside and begins to buy tickets for her posse of snotty and complaining Southern brats. I glare at her potbelly and my hands tingle with the urge to make her trip over my powers—er, thin air—but I know there are cameras around places like this so I control myself.

I have no money to buy a ticket…but that's not a huge issue. Places like these are guarded but not as heavily guarded as banks and expensive jewelry stores.

Which, yes, I've snuck into. Not to steal or anything, though. Just to use their fancy bathrooms.

I search the crowd intently and—ah! There they are. The perfect marks. A simply enormous gaggle of Irish tourists—part of some tour, I think, considering they're all coming off of a tour bus that has DUBLIN T.C. CLUB TRAVEL painted on the side—comes up the steps and approaches one ticket seller (who looks extremely intimidated in the face of so many loud redheads). I dart forward and slip into their crowd, careful to stay close to the edge so no one notices me. I swipe a phone out of someone's back pocket and begin pretending to text on it so no one will notice me. Nothing blends in more than yet another teenager texting in the twenty-first century. My hair isn't anywhere near as red as theirs but it's auburn enough to help me blend in slightly. The group leader buys tickets for the whole lot and then we're waved through. I stick close to them and then as soon as we're inside, I stick the phone back into the person's pocket and walk away. Thank you, kindly and loud Irish folks. I'll buy a Shamrock Shake (even I know what those are) in your honor next year.

I follow the massive signs leading to the Captain America exhibit and take a deep breath before stepping in. Immediately, it's like—quite literally—a blast to the past. They have automobiles and airplanes (aeroplanes, they were sometimes called in the novels I read) and a few other pieces of machinery from the days of my childhood. The walls are covered with photos and scenes from World War II and from everyday civilian life during the war. I examine a photo of a young woman walking down a New York City street. She's wearing a calf-length dress with a puffy blouse. Her hair is curled the way I used to curl mine. She's prettier than me, though. Or…she _was_ prettier than me. Since she's probably dead.

I silently walk around the exhibit, lost in my own thoughts. A tyrannosaurus rex could come rampaging through the room now and I wouldn't even notice. The photos of pre-serum Steve make me smile despite myself, a _real _smile. No one is here to watch me. I don't have to pretend or hide. They have a life-size photo of him against one wall and I touch his cheek, wishing I could see him look like this in real life once more. Some giggles disrupt me from my reverie and I turn to see some teenage girls giggling in a nasty way at me. Probably because I was affectionately touching a photo. That's weird, right? Yeah, that's weird. I'm not even mad. I would have giggled if I saw someone doing that, too. Probably.

And then, to my immense shock, I suddenly see _me_. There's a whole wall of photos and images of pre-serum Steve and I'm featured in a lot of them, as is Bucky. Little captions written on the plaques on the wall next to the photos describe the situations: _With friends Victoria Marsden and Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers (aged 14) flies kites in Durant Park (now home to a series of department stores). _

_ Victoria Marsden and Steve Rogers (aged 11) create the neighborhood's largest chalk drawing._

_ Bucky Barnes, Evelyn Truman, Steve Rogers, and Victoria Marsden go on a double date at Jimbo's, a local "jive" in the neighborhood._

I remember that day. Evelyn had a horsey laugh and she seemed more interested in eating everyone's food (and I mean _everyone_; she finished practically all of our meals) than Bucky. Bucky and Steve were sixteen at the time and Bucky was a little meaner then. He made Evelyn cry because he joked about her eating so much. He felt guilty about it afterwards. I'd only been thirteen then and Bucky had only allowed me to come because I was taller than Steve so I could pretend to be their age and pretend to be Steve's date. I got angry with Bucky for making her cry because her father knew _my _father and Bucky didn't speak to me for two days for daring to cross him. But later he apologized and told me I was "swell for knocking him down a peg or two." And then he went and apologized to Evelyn too.

I wonder what happened to her. Did she find a husband who didn't mind her eating them out of house and home?

I keep staring in fascination at the photos we took over the course of our lives growing up, painstakingly hunted down by the people in charge of creating this exhibit. I hope no one recognizes me—though with straight, choppy hair and modern clothes, I don't think anyone will. If they do, I'll just say I'm distantly related to Victoria Marsden.

And Bucky. Seeing _his _face hurts, especially when I think about what he's been twisted into now.

Suddenly seeing the exhibit is a little too overwhelming and I turn and leave, bumping into some people on my way out. Luckily no one's stolen my (er, the _kid's_) bike so I pedal furiously home. I almost hit a few cars on my way home, that's how distracted I am.

I leave the bike back in the peoples' yard (did no one notice it was missing? Good for me) and head back up to the apartment where—predictably—Steve is sitting at the counter, staring at my note, drumming his fingers rhythmically and looking anxious. His fingers are long and slightly slender, despite his strong build. He's always had artist's hands. That's probably why he's so good at art.

"Thank god!" he says, looking up as I slam the door shut. He looks relieved. "I was beginning to think—actually, never mind. It's fine. So…where did you go?" he asks, trying to sound casual.

"The Smithsonian," I say.

He looks confused. "Why would…?"

"The exhibit about you," I say.

He still looks confused. "Why would you want to see that? You know _me_."

I shrug. "I just…wanted to see photos and stuff. I don't even have any photos of what _I _looked like back then."

"I do," says Steve, almost shyly. Except "shy" is a strange word to describe a guy who looks like he does. Maybe "reserved" works better.

I stare at him. "You have photos of me?"

"Only a few," he says. "Peggy—Agent Carter, that is… She saved some of my belongings after I…after I didn't come back from the war. And I had some photos of you and Bucky. And my parents. You know."

"Right," I say.

"Wait," he says suddenly, looking incredibly suspicious. "How did you get to the museum? You didn't—you didn't do anything _illegal_, did you?"

I smile sweetly at him, knowing it'll make him more anxious.

"Victoria!" he says. "How did you get there?"

"I didn't know it was illegal," I say, purposefully frowning to myself, knowing I'm making him more and more anxious. "But…I didn't get caught…" Now he looks like he's about to burst. He's expecting the worst and I hold back a laugh as I say, "I…stole a bike."

"Good!" he says, letting out a sigh. "I mean—no, not _good. _But it's better than—you know—doing something else. Not that I think you'll do anything terrible. But you just seem a bit—"

"Insane," I suggest.

"Ye—NO! Not _insane_. Just…rougher," he says. Then he smiles suddenly. "You were always a firecracker. But you're even worse now. It's like…you've lost all your shyness."

I'm surprised. He thinks _I_ was always the firecracker? Funny, in my eyes, Bucky was always the firecracker, the sparkler, the one brimming with personality and life. But I'm starting to think that none of us can see ourselves accurately and that we're different things to other people, things that may not even make sense to me. Perhaps, to Steve, _Bucky _was the steady flame…and I was the firecracker. It is true that I had an excitable and sassy personality, even back then. I just hid it around most people because I was afraid of exposure. Afraid of anyone seeing me.

I'm not afraid anymore.

"It's a good thing," he adds. "I mean, you drive me crazy. But I like you better this way. You smile more in public. When you're not scowling like you want to murder everyone in sight."

Aw. I am genuinely touched. That is probably one of the nicest compliments I have ever received. "Thank you, Steve," I say, smiling at him. "To make up for your compliment, I am going to take you shopping and get rid of your hideous wardrobe!"

He looks a bit offended. "What's wrong with my clothes?" He looks down at his black slacks and navy blue button down.

"Nothing. It's just that you dress like an old man."

"I _am _an old man," he says, smiling crookedly. "Haven't you heard?"

"Shove it," I say, crossing my arms. "You don't look a day over twenty-four and I'll be damned—"

"You swear now?" he asks, looking surprised.

"—if I let you dress like you're eighty," I finish. "Come on. Let's go to the mall or wherever you buy clothes."

"_You _need clothes more than I do," says Steve hastily, seeing my outfit. "You first. Then me."

"Fine." I only give in because it's true: I need more than just the ragged outfit I'm wearing.

I can't believe Steve's agreed to go _shopping_—he's always hated it (his mother always bought him all his clothes, which is quite possibly why they were always so lame, even back in the day)—but he seems reluctant to deny me anything at the moment, as if I'll flip out and lose my marbles and run away if he says no to anything. Fine. I can work with that. I'll milk that as long as I can.

He drives us to the mall…the very same mall the HYDRA agents stalked us in. A heavy feeling settles in my stomach as I stare out at the mall. It seems strange that just a few days ago we were on the run for our lives and now…

I look over to see Steve pulling on a baseball cap. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Disguising myself," he says. "Let's go."

I want to buy him clothes first but he keeps evading it and telling me that _I _need to buy clothes first. And I admit—I do. I literally only have one outfit and where old-Steve's clothes might have fit me (a bit snugly), I'd be swimming in his clothes now. He's got around 115 pounds of muscle on me, in my estimate. Alarming, when you think about it. I feel uncomfortable shopping in these shiny, clean stores with their glossy mannequins and teenage girls everywhere. Everything is also so pricey. For someone who's used to having nothing…this feels very wrong. I try to backpedal and convince Steve to go to some thrift store but he's having none of it.

"Go find some stuff," he says. "I'll wait."

And he does. He sits outside every store I tiptoe into, staring at the ground and looking a bit bored. Lucky for him, he blends in because there's about five other guys outside every women's clothing store doing the same thing except they're also holding a bunch of bags. Why do women even take their boyfriends or husbands shopping? It's clearly a torturous experience for the men. I'm just bringing Steve because he has the money.

I hate to keep him waiting so I try to work quickly—but wow, styles have _changed _over the years. I'm hard-pressed to find a simple dress or even skirts and shirts that'll be flattering and nice to look at but will cover my body properly. Everything is sheer or short or has lace and net and cut-outs and millions of straps and strategically-placed tatters. And all the colors are floral, pink, neon, glittery… Women's fashion is out of this world. I feel like I'm wandering around a new galaxy of colors and shapes and styles and I feel very dazed. It's all pretty to look at but I can't bring myself to wear clothing that's too revealing—I just _can't_—so in the end, it takes me going to six different stores and spending a few hours to find some shirts, pants, and other things that fit well, don't show too much, and still look semi-cute.

By the time I'm done, darkness is showing through the skylights in the mall. "Oops," I say guiltily, looking at the dark blue sky. "I've wasted so much time. We're not even going to get time to shop for you…"

"Oh, it's okay," Steve says. He tries to contort his face into a sad expression but he sounds a bit too cheerful. I'm beginning to think he actually likes his old man clothes.

"Sorry about making you pay for all this," I say. Guilt is squeezing my heart with a suffocating grip. "I don't know… I'll pay you back. I don't know how right now but you can just write down how m—"

"Victoria, stop," Steve says. "It didn't cost that much and besides, I don't care. If I can't spend money on my best friend, who _can _I spend it on? I don't buy much."

"Where did you even get it?" I ask curiously as we leave the mall. "The money, I mean." Steve was never a rich guy and as far as I'm aware, being a superhero doesn't exactly _pay _well, in terms of money anyway.

"SHIELD paid me," he says. "Not sure where I'll get the money from now… I'll think of something. Start painting again, maybe, sell some art…"

"Or you could blow your nose and sell your tissues," I say. "I bet the Captain's tissues would go for a fortune." We're walking across the parking lot now, golden-orange streetlights winking through the deep purple sky and lighting our way. It's a beautiful summer night. I can see where he's parked his motorcycle.

Steve surprises me by bursting into laughter, the bending-over, gut-aching kind of laughter. Real laughter that shakes his frame. He laughs helplessly for a few minutes, clutching the seat of his motorcycle for support, and then he says, "I'll think about it. Ah, you are…something else…"

I stuff all my smaller bags into the biggest one and we somehow manage to make it home while I sit precariously on top of the bags, clutching onto Steve tighter than ever. I don't want to fall off and die now that I've made it so far. Just imagine: Fizzy survives _three _encounters with the Winter Soldier…only to die because a stack of clothing made her lose her balance. I'd avoid that death simply because of how lame it sounds.

Once inside, I think about changing into a dress for fun—but no, I need to shave and look proper for that. So I just change into a sweatshirt and a pair of black stretchy pants. They have a strange pink band around the hips. I'm not actually sure why. Then I stuff my old ragged clothes into the garbage can in the bathroom. At the very last minute, I decide to keep the royal blue hoodie. Because it's, you know, _rad_. I throw it onto Steve's bed along with my bags and exit to find Steve slamming a brown cardboard box onto the coffee table in the living room.

"This is all the stuff Peggy—Agent Carter—saved for me," he says.

"You can call her Peggy, you know," I say. "I know you…" I hesitate. "You were in love with her, weren't you?" I sit down on the ground next to the cardboard box and watch Steve as he pulls out random things: bundles of photos with rubber bands around them, rusted silver tins, faded silk ribbons, and other things. I instantly recognize a pack of playing cards with a faded brown stain covering the front—that's _my _blood. Let's just say that we had an incident one night involving a pack of playing cards and a paring knife.

"I was young," says Steve, sounding a bit faraway.

"Technically, it was only four years ago that you knew her," I say delicately. "You know. In terms of memory and stuff."

"Have you visited her?" I ask.

"She's old," he says carefully. "Has Alzheimer's. Still smart as a whip, of course. But…she's lived a full life. The best I could have wished for her." For a moment he's lost in deep thought and I sit silently and give him his time. I really don't know what he had with Agent Carter…but Steve was never the type of guy to lose his heart easily. Bucky appreciated every pretty woman he saw but Steve would only settle for the real thing, I always knew that. So Agent Carter must have been—still _is_—a very special woman indeed.

I have something awkward to say. I don't want to…but I think I need to. So I clear my throat. Steve ignores me, still staring off into the distance, lost in memories. I clear my throat more loudly. He keeps staring.

"AHEM," I say loudly. He snaps out of his reverie and stares at me. I cough. "So…about…what I told you yesterday…"

"It's okay," he says quickly. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"You're right," I say. "I don't want to. But bottling things up doesn't seem to have worked out so well for me—so I may as well try another way. So about yesterday…" I sigh and rub my nose, feeling self-conscious. My cheeks are heating up. This is actually worse than the time I hugged Natasha. "I wanted to let you know that I don't _really _blame you…deep, deep down…for me getting kidnapped. Whether you were there or not, Zola would have found a way to get me. I've just…I've just felt _really _alone these last few years." Steve opens his mouth to speak but I hold up a hand. "Wait, I'm not done. And I also wanted to say thank you. For being a good friend. Back then—and now. It's kind of more than I deserve, considering I was a boring third-wheel back then and I've been a rude jerk since I met you here…but you've always been a really great friend. You've always had my back. So I need to say thank you. I may be rude but I'm not ungrateful." I smile half-heartedly, trying to lighten the mood with my joke.

Steve stares at me with his blue eyes and for a moment I can't tell what the heck he's thinking. But I know in the next moment. I know because he _explodes. _"Third wheel?" he splutters. "Excuse me? What does that mean?"

"Well, generally in the English language—"

"Not now, Victoria! How could you—I don't even—_what_? A third wheel? How could you think that?"

I shrug. "It's true. You don't have to hide it. You and Bucky were always closer. You always went off and did stuff without me."

"Went off and—!" Steve breaks off, exhaling angrily through his nose. "Victoria, okay, I admit that we left you sometimes—but that's because girls weren't allowed to do some things back then and we didn't know any better. And fine, I knew Bucky longer and he was a guy…but you were _never _a third wheel, okay? Never." Seeing my disbelieving expression, he says, "Wait—wait, I'll prove it—" He storms to a closet, yanks the door open, and pulls out a stack of sketchbooks. He all but slams them down on the table in front of me. "Here!" he says triumphantly. "Count how many times you're in there."

Oh dear.

I ignore Steve and slowly begin flipping through the sketchbooks. There's about nine sketchbooks, every page with a different drawing on it. He's gotten even better since I last remember; he really could be a professional artist. And his subjects are almost dizzying in their variety: he's drawn sketches of buildings and cities and architecture; a whole series titled "The Little Ones" with sketches of different types of tiny dogs; sunsets and galaxies; plants; a whole seventeen pages dedicated to different types of flowers; and people. All sorts of people. People passing by on the streets, random people, some people who I recognize as celebrities… Natasha shows up once or twice as does Tony Stark, who I vaguely recognize from magazine covers. A man with a hammer shows up three times, lightning flashing behind him. Nick Fury is in one sketch. And people from _our _time. Some old school teachers, his parents, Bucky's parents, Bucky's little sister… And Bucky and I. We show up the most. He's captured our likeliness almost perfectly, although all the photos of me look like my old self. Sweet, shy smile on my face, hands behind my back, leaning up against brick walls and sitting on park benches. I try my hardest _not _to count—I don't want to give him the satisfaction—but I can't help myself. And he's right: I show up four more times than Bucky does.

Not that it's a competition or anything.

But maybe he's right. Maybe I'm too hard on myself. Maybe I always have been. How many years have I wasted thinking Bucky and Steve didn't need me? I can't possibly comprehend what I gave them…but there must have been _something_, for them to keep me around.

For that matter, how many years have I spent thinking I'm not pretty? Not interesting? Not worth anything? I can't even tell what's reality and what's just me being harsh on myself anymore. I wish I could see myself clearly.

I wish Bucky was here. I was always at my best self with both him and Steve around.

We spent the rest of the night going through the box, trading old stories that we both remember but haven't had the opportunity to speak of in decades. I resist the urge to be snarky with Steve several times. I'm trying to be a happier person, lose all the extra anger tied up into me (without losing my badass edge, of course; _that's _never going away, nor would I want it to). I laugh more that night than I have done in a long time as we recount old stories and memories, all the things that I've tried so hard to forget. Eventually Steve tells me that it's getting late and we should be going to sleep.

"Fury wants to meet with us tomorrow," he says.

"So he's alive and well," I say. "Good. I want to congratulate him for killing Pierce."

"I don't think we should ever congratulate people for killing," Steve says.

"You would, if you knew what HYDRA put me through," I say quietly. Steve falls silent. "By the way, I'm sleeping on the couch," I add casually, lightening the mood.

"No way." Steve shakes his head. "That's not polite at all."

"Neither is making an enormous monster like you sleep on this tiny couch," I point out. "_I_ fit on it. You, Mr. Superserum, do not. I will be taking the couch and there will be no arguments about this. Are we clear?"

Steve squints at me, looking almost like he wants to pummel me. Yeah, regretting my newfound boldness, aren't you, buddy?

We both clean up the area, get ready for bed, and then bid each other goodnight. I lay down on the sofa, pulling a blanket up to my chin, and stare at the ceiling as I hear his door click shut. He's actually closed it this time. Now he really _does_ trust me not to run away. I don't know why, but the thought makes me feel happy and I fall asleep to the motion of the slowly spinning ceiling fan panels, which I'm moving with my powers, slowly swirling my finger the way one would slowly stir a hot, sweet coffee.

* * *

**A/N: Oops, it seems my hand's slipped and I've written some…what do you call it…fluff? Haha. But I think it's important to show all this: their friendship, emotions, all that good stuff. Never fear, Bucky **_**will **_**be showing up again, so stay with me, Reader! And do try to leave a review. :)**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: So I've written three chapters of the sequel to Heading Home already. I was thinking that I'd post the first chapter of that story when I post the last chapter of this one—but I'm thinking that this story might be a little longer, so I'll probably post the sequel to Heading Home soon. I just want to polish it up a little bit and set up my game plan. ALSO, I've started tentative work on a story about Tony Stark and an OC, if that interests anyone? Bueller…Bueller…anyone? Haha. I should clarify that the Tony Stark story would NOT be a romance. I'll let you guys know if that story ever takes flight. Big thank you to anyone still reading and reviewing this story!**

* * *

For the first time in a long time, I have a peaceful night's sleep. No tossing and turning, no nightmares, not even any dreams actually—just heavy, blank slumber. To the point where Steve actually has to shake my shoulder a little bit to wake me up. I grumble and pull the blanket over my head and he has to threaten to leave without me before I get up and get ready. Good thing I've gone shopping because I now have suitable clothes to wear. When I exit the bathroom, my damp hair brushed back from my face, I see that Steve's got milk, boxes of cereal, and a bowl set out.

"I know I don't have much food in the house," he says sheepishly, "so I ran out to buy breakfast."

"Yeah, we're going to need to remedy the food situation," I say. I inhale about two bowls of Frosted Flakes while Steve watches in fascination ("You can still eat as much as a grown man," he says in admiration; heck yes I can) and then we head out. It's a beautiful spring morning. The skies are a brilliant blue, the sun isn't shining too hotly, a warm breeze sends my hair dancing, and everything is bright green. I enjoy the ride as we drive through the streets of D.C. but I stop enjoying the ride once I've realized where we're parking.

"The cemetery?" I demand.

Steve shrugs. "Fury _is _a dead man, technically…right?"

I roll my eyes. Ridiculous. But I guess hanging out in cemeteries works well for that morbid poetry café grunge look I've been considering, right? All about the image.

No one is here yet—in fact, no one is in the cemetery at all—so we wander around on our own, looking for Fury's "grave." We find it in the newer section of the cemetery, right underneath a lush oak tree. Dappled sunlight filters in through the leaves and the scene is actually pretty beautiful and cheerful if you ignore the fact that we're both staring at the gravestone of a dead man who is not dead.

"Ahhh, there she is!" Someone grabs me from behind in a huge hug and spins me around. My hackles rise for a moment as I panic (_not _a fan of strangers touching me) but then I realize it's just Sam and my heartbeat settles. He holds me out at arm's length and grins. "Looking good, looking good! Sorry I couldn't visit you in the hospital. Once my mom and sister figured out there was an attack on D.C. they went crazy and insisted on me coming home right away—or they'd come to me. And trust me, once my sister and ma decide to visit, they stay for _weeks_."

I smile despite myself. "It's fine."

"Oh!" His eyebrows raise. "Is Fizztoria actually _smiling_?"

Now I'm scowling. What, is me smiling really so weird? Must everyone comment?

"Now you're back to normal," he says, grinning. Then he turns and gives Steve one of those man hugs. You know, the ones where they kind of quickly bump chests for a second and slap each other on the back and then let go just as quickly. Guys are so weird sometimes. "Alright man?" he asks Steve and Steve nods.

"Captain Rogers, Wilson, Marsden." We all turn to see Fury striding towards us, nodding sharply, and I hold back the urge to laugh. He's wearing what looks like a long black woolen duster with a black turtleneck and round black sunglasses. He looks like he should be shrieking insults at art students at an institute in Paris or something, not leading an organization of agents and spies against crime and evil.

"Good to see you alive and well, Director," Steve says cordially.

"Nice sunglasses," I say, grinning. "No more eye patch? It made you look like a pirate."

Fury raises an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment or an insult, Marsden?"

"Looking like a pirate is never an insult," I say truthfully.

"Unfortunately, the eye patch had to go," says Fury. He stares down at the gravestone for a moment, marked NICHOLAS J. FURY. I wonder what the "J" stands for. "I'm officially a dead man—or at least I am until they figure out I'm not. But I'm staying under cover for a little while. Need time to regroup and all that. I'm heading to Europe to do some investigation of my own. There's a team overseas who currently needs my help. That's why I called all of you here."

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Natasha has come striding across the lawn, looking like a supermodel with straight hair, skinny jeans, and a black leather jacket. She stands silently a few feet away from the group, arms folded, obviously listening. I force myself to pay attention to what Fury's saying: "I could use the three of you in Europe," he says. "SHIELD resources are extremely…undercut, as I'm sure you all know." He snorts at the dry remark. We all know SHIELD is basically demolished. "So what do you say? Captain?"

"Sorry, Director," Steve says politely, "but I've got my own mission to work on."

"I had a feeling you'd say that," says Fury. "How about you, Wilson? Marsden?" He looks at me. "You're untrained but you're powerful. You could be a great asset."

I shiver. I'm not sure I want to be an asset…just yet. I know I told Steve I wanted to help him in fighting evil—but it's a big leap to suddenly become an _asset _for an organization that was just revealed to have been compromised for years. Compromised by the same people who stole my life.

"Sorry, no can do," Sam says pleasantly. "I'm sticking with Cap."

"Same here," I say, toeing the dirt near my foot awkwardly. "We've all got a personal mission to finish first." Sam's coming with Steve and me in our quest to find Bucky.

Fury sighs. "I had a feeling you'd all say this. Well, doesn't matter, I'll be back eventually and I'm going to be keeping in touch. You haven't gotten rid of Nick Fury just yet."

"I've heard that people who refer to themselves in the third person tend to have sociopathic tendencies," I offer seriously.

Fury raises an eyebrow at me but surprises me by chuckling. "Surprisingly, I like you, Marsden. But your mouth is going to get you killed one day."

"Don't I know it," mutters Steve.

"Well, I'm off," says Fury. "Wheels up for me in a few hours. I'll be seeing you three very soon, I anticipate." Then, without so much as a "goodbye" or a "Hey, thanks for saving D.C. and probably the world and tons of people, I totally appreciate it," he turns and walks away, his black duster flapping dramatically behind him. I have the funny feeling all of his black clothing flaps dramatically around him. He has that _look_, you know?

"Consider yourselves lucky," Natasha says, speaking for the first time. She approaches us, a small smile on her face. "That's the closest he comes to saying thank you." She holds out a file folder to Steve. "I managed to get the file you asked for, Steve, but…you may not want to pull on that string." Her tone is serious. "Because once you do, there's no going back."

"I appreciate the concern, Natasha," Steve says, "but I need to find him." He opens the folder and stares at a page on the inside for a moment before snapping it shut and asking, "And what about you? What will you do now?"

"Well," she says, "all my covers have been blown. I have a lot of enemies out there. I'm going to take some time off, hide it out, come up with some new covers."

"You could try being yourself this time," Steve says, smiling.

"I'll think about it," says Natasha with a playful and mysterious glimmer in her eyes. She reaches up on tip toes and kisses Steve on the cheek. "Be careful, Cap. See you around, Sam," she calls to Sam, who waves and grins in a flirty sort of way. Then she turns to me and says, "A word, Fizzo?"

I follow her a safe distance away where Steve can't hear with his sharper hearing and face her, arms folded. "Yeah?"

"I want to let you know," she says quietly, "that SHIELD is not done. Weakened, but not done. And Fury isn't the only one in charge out there. There are others—lower in command, of course—who can work from the shadows to build SHIELD up again. There's one man in particular. He's…you could say he's sort of like Fury. Dead, but not really. Off the grid for the moment… Anyway, my point is, I know Steve won't want you to do anything dangerous. But let's not beat around the bush: your powers are dangerous. _You _are dangerous. And you need to be trained. SHIELD is your best bet for that. The world is going to need us more than ever soon enough and you can help yourself _and _the world by joining what's left of us to train."

She looks off into the distance for a moment. I don't know if she's actually lost in thought or if she's doing it to merely look mysterious but the effect is spectacular. "The world is a bigger place than we thought. Every day, before all this happened, we were receiving intel of other organizations, other people, other…_beings_. HYDRA isn't the only one. Steve isn't the only super-soldier. And I'm willing to be you're not the only…person with powers." She raises an eyebrow at me. "I'm not asking you do anything now. But like I said, things won't remain calm for forever—and when things do fall apart, you're going to need to decide _quickly _who's side you play for."

"I play for my own side," I say.

"Yeah, but the thing is, Victoria…that won't be enough when the world starts coming to an end." She takes an abrupt step back. "Think about it. There's a lot of mysteries out there and I have a feeling you're only the tip of the iceberg. You're a smarty-pants—don't you want to uncover all the secrets out there?" She smiles.

She's right. I do. It's itching, pulling, tugging at me. I want to travel and fight evil and find out things. Make a difference. Be somebody again.

"We'll meet soon," she says. "And I'll be expecting an answer." Then she suddenly hugs me. I freeze for a moment—what the days is even going _on_? Is the Black Widow actually _hugging _me? The world's gone completely topsy-turvy—but she's surprisingly soft and warm for someone I nicknamed the Ice Queen so after a moment, I hug her back. It feels different to hug a woman than it does to hug Steve and for just one moment—eyes squeezed shut, hugging Natasha—I feel like I'm hugging my mother again.

Then she lets go and steps away. "What was _that _for?" I ask, shocked.

"You remind me of myself, a little bit," she says, sounding a bit fond, "and when I was a wild twenty-year-old, I could have used a hug or two, I think. See you later, Fizz. Think about what I've said." And then she's turning and striding away, still as mysterious as ever. Woman sure does know how to make an exit. Must be a superhero thing.

I stand there, staring after her for a minute. My mind feels like it's on overload from all the heavy stuff she's just dumped on me.

_I'm dangerous?_

_ Yes. Yes, I am. _

_ So…now what? Big decisions. _

I head back to Steve and Sam, who have been staring at the file, which has Bucky's information inside obviously. I'm curious too but I know I can look at it later. "I'm going to the museum," I tell Steve.

"Again?" he asks quizzically.

"Again."

"Do you want me to come along?" He tries to sound enthusiastic and I know if I say yes, he'll come. But I don't think he wants to particularly spend time in that exhibit. I understand. It must be painful _and _weird for him, to look at it.

"No thanks," I say. "I'll be fine. I have this now, remember?" I wave the simple flip phone Steve handed me this morning with a few numbers already stored inside. I don't even know who some of the people are—why do I have _Tony Stark's _number? But Steve says it's "just in case." I can't comprehend why I'd ever need to call Tony Stark "just in case" but whatever. Maybe I'll prank call him and order two thousand pizzas to his place…wherever that is.

Steve takes me to the museum and then drives off, waving. No one even notices him. I head inside to the Captain America exhibit. I don't know why I'm doing this to myself but I'm drawn to it, for some reason.

* * *

The next two days are hectic. Steve and Sam are now planning to head out very soon. They're gathering maps and weapons. Natasha is hiding out somewhere but she's called once or twice, giving them some information or a heads-up they might need. Steve's been pouring over Bucky's—the Winter Soldier's—files. He thinks that now that Bucky may have part of his memory back (because that's what they did to him: suppress his memories), he might go back and visit some places from his past…like Brooklyn, New York city.

I leave the planning to Steve and go to the museum on both days. Steve doesn't understand why I go every day. Neither do I. Something calls me there. I can't stop looking at all the photos, trying to remember every detail from every single photo. No one notices me; I'm just a lone, lost young woman in a sea of families and couples, staring up at the photos with a too-serious expression on my face. Looking for something. Searching for someone.

* * *

It happens on the fourth day at the museum. Steve tells me, in the morning, that we're heading out tomorrow. "We'll go to New York city first," he says. "That's our best bet right now."

"And what if he's not there?" I ask.

"Then we'll keep searching," he says grimly. "I'll search the whole planet if I need to. He needs us."

This, I can't argue with. I can only imagine the state Bucky's in right now. Whatever they've done to him, wherever he is…he can't be well. Not emotionally, mentally, _or _physically, in fact. And besides, it's not like I have anything better to do with my life—why _not _spend the rest of it hunting down my assassin old best friend with my superhero other old best friend?

It's sentences like that that get people thrown in loony bins.

I head off to the museum again. Steve shoots me a look before I leave, a look that seems to say, _You are off your rocker_, but since it's our last day in D.C. I guess he decides to just leave me alone to my obsessions and oddities and not say anything. _Thank you, Steve, I appreciate you not pointing out my weirdness. _

He's gotten me a bike by now. It's not new; I forbade him to buy me a new bike. It's Sam's old mountain bike, loaned to me for now. I pedal to the museum as fast as I can. I have the route memorized by now, even though I've only been there three times before. I lock it onto the bike rack with my new bike lock and head up the steps. I have a set routine by now, a certain way I walk, always ending with the grainy videos of Steve and Bucky made after Steve rescued him from the HYDRA base.

It's there that I notice him. I'm standing farther back, hands in my pockets, memorizing ever inch of the video, when I see a man standing a few feet in front of me. He's taller than me and has broad shoulder but he looks hunched over, as if he's anticipating a heavy wind will suddenly knock him back. He's wearing dark, baggy clothing that tells me nothing about him and a baseball cap with dark brown hair pulled into a pony tail at the nape of his neck. A prickle runs down the back of my own neck. Nothing about him is suspicious, per se—but the way he's standing there, staring at the video, _alone_… He and I must be the only two people in the room who are alone. And even weirder than him being alone…it's his _stillness _that really gets me. He's frozen like a statue, so still that it almost doesn't seem like he's alive.

Normal people don't stand still like that.

I slowly edge forward, hesitantly, as if in a dream. It's like I know—I _know _deep down—but I don't want to say it, even in my mind, in case it's not who I think it is—

But it is. It is him.

I'm standing kitty-corner from him, slightly behind him, and he hasn't noticed me yet but I can see him. His face is covered with stubble and darkened by the shadows made by his baseball cap brim, but I can see his eyes glittering as he stares silently at the video of _him _and Steve laughing.

Bucky.

As if I've said it out loud, he slowly turns robotically to stare at me.

Oh—wait—did I actually say it out loud? I think I did.

Before I can react, he's suddenly standing in front of me and his hand closes around my throat. Wait…_what_? This is now how I imagined our meeting going down. Maybe some silence, some anger, sure, but not getting _strangled _by him. "Wait," I choke out as his grip tightens and my airway is cut off. I splutter and choke and it's unbelievably that literally _no one _is noticing a fully grown man throttling a probably-turning-purple-by-now young woman. God. Worst security _ever_. I should sue.

If I, you know, don't get choked to death first.

But he's standing so close to me and the exhibition room is so shadowed and busy that honestly at a random glance, it must look like we're actually a couple having an intimate moment. If only people knew. He's actually lifted me off the ground a few inches and my feet dangle and kick as black spots dance in front of my blurry vision and my ears ring—

_Say your prayers, Fizzy, because you're about to DIE._

And then he suddenly lets go and backs off a step. I immediately drop to my feet and stagger, hands frantically massaging my burning throat, taking in deep breaths of sweet, sweet air. Air. Lovely air. I will never take air for granted again. Who needs dessert when you can have _air_? I blink tears of pain out of my eyes, rubbing them away furiously, and look weakly up at Bucky. My throat is burning and my head is throbbing from my momentary experience being strangled and my voice sounds hoarse when I snap, "What the _hell_?"

His mouth is slightly open and he looks dazed and confused but also sort of horrified. It suddenly occurs to me: he may not have known what he was doing. Maybe he didn't recognize me. I shouldn't have snuck up on him. He's like a wild animal…he's going to lash out if he feels afraid or attacked.

I cough once and then straighten up. "Bucky—"

And then he's grabbing me and dragging me away. One of his arms is wrapped so tightly around my waist that I squeal in pain until he slams his other hand over my mouth. He lets go right away, probably because that really _would _look suspicious even to the clearly-incompetent morons they call guards here at the museum, but his grip at my waist tightens. He's jerked me to him so hard that I can barely breathe and he whisks me away so quickly it's all I can do to keep up.

"Where are you—" I start but he switches positions suddenly. His arm vanishes from my waist and his head instead clutches the back of my head and shoves it down a little bit. "Ow!" I yelp but he takes no notice. "Ow, ow, ow, ow—" I let out little yelps and cries of pain as he basically drag-shoves me from the museum and down the steps, holding me in some sort of sneaky headlock so I can't get away. He drags me down the steps and I wonder what a passerby would think if they saw this scene. Probably that I was some girl with an abusive boyfriend.

The thought fills me with red rage. I'm _nobody's _victim. I slam my elbow into his side and my power explodes out of me, sending him flying back and tumbling down a few steps. His baseball hat falls off. Now we've caught the attention of a few passersby heading up and down the steps around us. We have an audience. Good. This is what I live for. I've gained the upper hand.

"Oh, Ben!" I wail dramatically, rushing down the steps to him. "I'm so sorry! Did I hurt you, baby?" I snatch up his hat and clutch it to my chest, a token of our undying love, obviously. I need to become an actress.

He blinks at me as I haul him to his feet (though I suspect it's more like him getting to his feet and shoving me back rather than me pulling him). I see some people around us roll their eyes in an _Ugh, young people in love_ sort of way. Good. I've embarrassed both of us and now no one will want to watch us. Admit it: annoying couples in public are the worst. Everyone always wants to look away from them _and _kill them. Hopefully the people around us will stick to the first option. I've had enough of people trying to kill me for a while.

He's disoriented enough for the moment that I manage to yank him down the steps and towards the huge park with trees and picnic tables right next to the museum, loudly and cheerfully calling, "Come on, Ben, sweetie, let's get something to eat!" I'm glad he's confused enough to let me pull him because I'm almost positive if he resisted, I'd never be able to drag him anywhere. He must be 200 pounds of pure muscle or something. Was it really necessary for _both _of my best friends to become enormous fighting machines?

I lead him to a picnic table under a tree with no one around to hear us and then turn to face him and demand, "What was that all about?" I wince while I speak. Just as I was getting better, he's gone and choked me. Now my throat hurts like hell. "Why did you just try to kill me?"

"I—" He stops and stares at me as if he has no idea what to say next. "I thought you— I reacted."

"Your first reaction to hearing your name is to _strangle _somebody?" I demand. Then I sigh. "Never mind. Where did you—how did you you—what are you doing _here_?" I point to the museum.

He's been staring at me like I'm an alien but he suddenly takes a few steps back. "I'm leaving," he says, his voice hoarse and strangely flat.

"What?" I cry in horror. "You can't just leave! Bucky—don't you remember me? Steve and I, we can help you. We were your best friends. Remember?"

"No," he says dully and I can tell he's telling the truth. There's a shadow of confused bitterness in his eyes and I know he's being honest: he honestly doesn't remember… But he wants to. I think. Considering he was at the Captain America exhibit, there _must _be a part of him that yearns to remember the truth about himself.

I stamp my foot in frustration (I know, total drama queen move). "Come _on_! My name is Victoria Marsden! You used to call me 'Vic' and it used to make me so angry. I was in love with you but you saw me as a sister. You taught me how to fly a kite. You taught me how to roller skate. You—your mother helped me get a dress for our first school dance. We had a fight the day before you shipped out to war." My voice has gotten impossibly shrill now and I feel stupid tears pricking the backs of my eyes. "You don't remember _any _of this?" I know it's stupid and selfish of me to get so upset when _he's _the one who's had his memories taken away—but seeing him stare at me with such an empty, vacant expression…it hurts like a punch to the gut. I hate seeing Bucky Barnes like this.

He has dark shadows under his eyes and he looks exhausted and shell-shocked, sort of like a cat that's wandered near a firecracker. And he's been staring at me as if I've suddenly started speaking in Portuguese during my emotional rant. Finally he wrinkles his brow slightly and frowns at me, looking slightly like a very confused child. "You were in love with me?"

He would. He _would _focus on that. And why did I even mention it? Stupid Victoria. Stupid, stupid Victoria. I sigh and tuck my hair behind my ears. "Yeah, well—I had a slight crush on you." Understatement. "I mean, it wasn't anything… You never really… It was nothing. The _point _is, I know you. And you know me, deep down. You may not realize it but you do. The photos inside that exhibit are _proof _that you knew me. None of this rings a bell?" I ask softly. "None of this?" I search his face. He looks so strange and foreign but at least the terrifying robot who tried to kill us multiple times is gone.

Sort of. Minus the strangling incident.

He stares at me intently for a long time. We stand in silence as I let him stare at me and I hope no one is watching us. We must look very odd. Finally he murmurs, almost to himself, "Your freckles… I remember those."

Seriously? My freckles?

"Do you?" I ask in delight, trying to ignore the fact that he's basically remembering the most unattractive part of my face. "Good! You used to call me 'Cinnamon Face' and tell me no boy would like me with them!" I grimace. "You once told me to sandpaper them off."

He frowns slightly. "Are you sure…we were…_friends_?"

"You were really young when you said this," I say hastily, "and you were joking. You were always joking… Always easy-going. Nothing phased you."

"And your hair," he murmurs suddenly. This time it _is _to himself. He's lost in his own world. "I remember…the hair. Vic…toria…?"

"Yes," I say breathlessly, afraid to break his spell. "That's—that's me. Victoria. Do you remember me now?"

Something snaps in half in his eyes. "I can't do this," he says hoarsely. He sounds a bit frightened. And then he turns to go.

I panic. If he disappears now, I'll never be able to find him. So I do something incredibly stupid. I know he reacts wildly to any sort of perceived attack but I do it anyway. "Wait!" I lunge for him and grab his metal arm. I don't want to let go of him, let him walk away, and I have my own reasons for doing this. But this turns out to be a big mistake. The second my hand closes on his metal arm he turns and flips me over, slamming me into the ground so hard that I lose my breath again and lay there for a second, wheezing like a stupid fish out of water. My eyes are watering again and I blink away the blurriness to find him staring down at me, looking once again semi-surprised and also semi-horrified by his violent response. Good. I hope he feels bad. I haven't signed up to be an assassin's punching bag, thank you very much.

"Thanks for that," I wheeze. "I'm trying to _help _you." I slowly get to my feet, taking deep breaths and wincing at the pain radiating down my back. His strength is unbelievable. He could have crushed my spine. "I was locked up in cryo by HYDRA too, you know," I snap. "For _decades_, Bucky. They kidnapped me and froze me and made me go through obstacle courses and tests and they punished me a lot."

All the kicks and punches and whippings, all the blood and pain—the sound of my ribs cracking more than once—

Actually, no, let's not ever dwell on that.

I wipe my watery eyes, not sure if the tears are from the physical pain or from the overwhelming anger and hurt and memories rising up in me. How dare he act like he's the only one who's been hurt? I know what they did to him was far worse but it's not like I went through sunshine and daisies. I went through hell too.

"You're not the only one," I finish quietly.

"Did they erase your memories and turn you into a killer too?!" The words burst out of him, hot and heavy, and he looks almost shocked, as if he himself didn't expect the words to come out. His chest is rising and falling with deep breaths and I can sense he's barely controlling his rage and confusion.

_Danger. Back OFF, Fizz. _

Warning bells go off in my head. His fists are clenched and he looks almost possessed, eyes narrowed slits. He looks a bit mad. He's already hurt me twice. If I push him, he may very well kill me in a fit of panic or anger.

"No, but they would have eventually," I say darkly, slowly, trying not to let any more emotions show. "Come on. Think about your options. What are you going to do? Go back to HYDRA? They're the ones who did this to you. Wander around feeling confused and lost? What good will that do?" I soften my tone. "Steve and I care about you. That's the truth. Come back with me and meet with Steve. We…we love you," I say hesitantly, watching him carefully to see if this declaration will send him over the edge. His eyes widen slightly but he doesn't say anything. "We can help you get your memories back," I say. I sound a bit desperate now because I can see the emotions receding from his eyes—he's doing what I've always done. He's withdrawing. Shutting down.

Not a good sign.

"I'm leaving," he says, backing away from me. He's looking at me like I'm sort of weapon, something that can go off at any moment and hurt him. "Don't look for me."

"You can't!"

"I can," he says tersely and then he turns and strides away. I watch him go for a moment, my mouth hanging open. That's it? Attacking me twice, having me pour out my guts to him, and he's just leaving? He has no desire to find out the truth?

_Fizzy, you idiot, get moving! HE'S GETTING AWAY! _

My legs finally catch up with my brain and I take off running to catch up to him and try to convince him to come with me—but damn, he's quick and, as usual, a master at the art of disappearing. I see him disappear into a crowd of tourists but as I frantically shove through the crowd to the other side, he's completely vanished. I desperately scan the landscape around me but there's too many people milling around. I won't be able to find him.

He's gone.

I shove my hands in my pockets and grimly smile to myself. He may be gone but he won't be gone for long.

Because I've gotten a tracking device on him.


	15. Chapter 15

"HE'S HERE!" I burst into the apartment, shouting, "He's here! Track him, I've gotten a tracking patch on him!" My face is sweaty and probably very red and I feel like my lungs and face are burning up. I've pedaled here in the burning sunshine at top speed, not stopping for pedestrians or traffic and I'm not even sure how I've made it home without catapulting myself into traffic or wiping out completely. I probably look like a tomato. With my hair color…not a good look.

"What?" Steve and Sam both look up in alarm from where they've been sitting, heads bent over some papers.

"Bucky!" I babble, breathing heavily. Man, what a work out. "I was at the museum—and he showed up!" Another deep breath. My cheeks feel extremely hot, the way they do after an intense anaerobic workout. Which is usually when I run (or bike!) for my life. For _Bucky's_ life, in this case.

"Wait, slow down, what?" Steve leaps to his feet. "He did? And you let him _go_?"

"Um, he's kind of a super-soldier," I snap. "Do you really think I could contain him? But I got a tracking patch on him so _track_!" Steve stares at me, squinting slightly, as if he maybe thinks I have heatstroke and have gone nuts. He clearly needs a shock. A slap or something, that always does the trick in novels and stuff. "Steve." I march over to him and—_wham_—slug him in the stomach as hard as I can.

Ho. Ly. Crap.

It's like punching a brick wall and I immediately feel like my hand has been broken. _I'm _the one who's gotten the shock. I yank my throbbing hand away, swearing nonstop like a filthy sailor inside my mind, and say through gritted teeth, "_Steve_. Bucky. Is. Here. And if you don't track him _now_, he's going to get farther and farther away—and it won't be long before he realizes he has a tracking patch on him. Come on, what's wrong with you? MOVE!" My hand aches. Stupid rock-hard abs.

The tracking patch in question is a translucent square with a tiny microchip embedded it into it. It fits onto the skin like a bandage. Steve gave it to me earlier with the request that he wanted to keep tabs on me in case some rogue HYDRA agents got me. I thought it was paranoid and crazy of him but seeing the haunted look in his eyes, I agreed. I point-blank refused to actually _wear _it, however. I just carried it around in my pocket. It still worked whether it was attached to a surface or not. But when I chanced upon Bucky…

While we were talking, I slid my hands into my pockets and unwrapped the tiny tracer. And when I wildly grabbed his arm to stop him from going, that wasn't just because I have a deep love of being beaten up by the Winter Soldier—it was so that I could stick the tracker onto his metal arm. It's tiny and he won't notice it for a while but it won't stay on for forever and when it falls off, he'll be off the grid and we won't be able to find him for a long time.

"I—I don't know how," says Steve, looking a bit panicked. "Natasha's the one who knows how to trace, she gave me the trackers, I was planning on asking her if anything ever happened but she's not here—"

"I'll do it," says Sam quickly. "I've done a bit of tracking before, only mild ops. It's a McCullen system, right? They're the only ones who use skin patches. Fizzy, do you have the tracking serial number?"

Thank the Lord. _Thank the Lord_, because for once in my life I can say that I am not a colossal failure and disappointment: I have the tracking serial number, the number that the tracking device is registered and tracked with. I yank a piece of paper out of a kitchen drawer with a string of numbers scrawled onto it and thrust it at Sam.

"Hand me the home-base device, Steve," Sam says. "The one that does the tracking. _Quickly_."

Steve dives for his room, slamming into a wall on his way there (I wince and close my eyes; Steve, you absolute idiot) and he comes barreling back and practically slams a device into Sam's face. It looks like a small black laptop, more rectangular and less sleek and modern-looking. Sam flips it open and Steve and I crowd around him as he turns the home-base on. It seems to take an agonizingly long time to whir to life and power up (though it's actually only thirty seconds. I would know—I count) and when it does, two lights at the top start blinking, Sam enters the string of numbers into the screen, and says, "Alright, it's locating _our _position via satellite…hold on, this takes a minute or two…"

I bite my lip, tapping my foot frantically on the floor. I feel antsy. Can't keep myself still. A minute or two? That's too long. Bucky could be long gone by now. It's already taken me fifteen minutes to get home. This is ridiculous. I need wings like the Falcon.

Steve glances at me and then stops, startled. "Victoria, what happened to your _throat_?" he asks in horror.

What? What's happened to it? I back up and then rush to the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. Two large slowly-turning-purple reddish sort-of-handprint-shaped bruises cover my throat. You can definitely tell I've been throttled. Either that or someone tried to use my neck for support as they fell down some stairs. I head back to Steve, glancing at the home-base. It's still locating our position. Come on!

"Bucky did it," I say, trying not to show that it hurts. I shrug. Shrugging is good—very blasé. "I, um, sort of startled him."

"He's dangerous to be around," Steve murmurs, looking worried. "We have to be careful when we find him."

"Aha!" shouts Sam, slamming his hand down onto the table. "There we go!" A stationary blue dot has pinged onto the surface, which has a grid on it and circles emanating from our position. "That blue dot, that blue dot is us," he says. "This is showing everything within a ten mile radius around us. Barnes should be a red dot…"

There is no red dot.

"He's taken his tracker off," I say in a panic.

"Wait, calm down," says Sam. "He may have just…" He presses a button on the home-base. "…gone outside the ten mile radius." The screen zooms out and now we see more grid and shapes and circles. And—

"There it is!" I hiss, pointing. "The red dot!" It's moving and it's moving _fast_, across the screen, circles emanating from it.

"The circles are getting smaller," says Steve, staring intently at the screen. "Why—?"

"The further he gets from us, the less we'll be able to detect him," says Sam. "This is only a rudimentary system, not super advanced. And"—he frowns at the screen—"your boy Barnes is moving fast. Does he have a car? Because he's breaking some speed limits right now."

"Then let's move!" I explode. "He's going to get away!"

"Wait, Steve, do you have any more tracking patches?" Sam asks urgently.

"Yeah, a few," says Steve, looking bewildered. "Why—_oh_." Something dawns on him. "Good idea." He sprints off to his room and is back in the blink of an eye, swinging around the corner and pressing a tracking patch to the back of my hand. I stare down at it while Steve reads off the sequence of numbers to Sam, who enters it into the system already displayed. We wait a tense thirty seconds but then a yellow dot lights up on screen, almost right on top of the blue dot.

"Yes!" cheers Sam, grinning wildly. "Alright, so you two go get him and I'll stay back here and watch the whole thing, direct you were to go. Get your comms back in."

Steve sends me to find the ear pieces while he gathers a few weapons. I don't like the thought of using any kind of force on Bucky—but Steve's right, the man is dangerous and a bit wild. I mean he almost strangled me just because I said his _name_. We might need some things to stop him, though I really hope it doesn't come to that. Somehow I get the feeling that _Tasering _him isn't exactly the best way to start off our new relationship. I rummage through Steve's drawers until I find the ear pieces and hurry back. Steve's strapped some weapons into the insider of his brown leather jacket (he's had it custom tailored so that it can hold weapons—yet another thing I could totally add to my "combat chic" collection) and we all stick the ear pieces in our ears. I hate the feeling of them, so hard and foreign, but they're necessary. Sam tosses something shiny, silver, and jangly at Steve, who pockets it immediately. What was—?

"All clear?" Sam tests and his voice comes through, slightly buzzy and distant, but clear as a bell.

Steve and I nod and then we head out. Actually, "head out" is an understatement. We run like hell, practically leaping down a whole flight of stairs in one jump.

Okay, I'm just kidding. Steve doesn't do that. _I_ do that. And I actually trip down the flight of stairs and Steve yanks me up without a word and we keep running.

But we're never going to talk about that. You hear me? It never happened.

I head in the direction of his motorcycle because I think we're going on that but he grabs the back of my shirt collar and yanks me around in the other direction, motioning to a black sports car. "Don't you dare scratch or dent my car," Sam warns us in our ears. I leap into the passenger seat and we peel out of there, Sam's voice rising, "I'm telling you, Steve, not a scratch—!"

And then we're on the chase. Steve is careful not to break any speed limits simply because getting the police on our case would be annoying and slow us down—and also because killing pedestrians probably isn't on Captain America's agenda—but he comes dangerously close to breaking it sometimes. Bucky is heading somewhere north, according to Sam, who's constantly talking in our ears, telling Steve where to turn, which route to follow.

"How is he moving so fast?" I shout into the wind rushing into my face as we speed down the road. Sam's car is a convertible and we haven't put the top up. Probably because neither of us actually know how.

"He's on some sort of vehicle," replies Steve. "We just have to figure out what."

My thoughts immediately jump to trains. Only because…a train is what killed Bucky. Well, "killed" Bucky, since he didn't actually die. Would he go on a train? I know that if the cause of my "death" was because of falling off of a train, I'd stay far, far away from them. But desperate times call for desperate measures…and Bucky seems like a desperate man.

"Do you think he's going to New York?" I ask in shock. He's moving so quickly up north…it would make sense…

"No idea," says Steve. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Take a left!" Sam says suddenly and Steve jerks the steering wheel in a hard left, screetching around the corner and accidentally hitting a garbage can on the way.

"WHAT WAS THAT?" Sam suddenly shouts in a panic. "Did you hurt my baby?"

"Your baby is fine, Sam, shut up and give us directions!" I shout. If anyone were to see this scene…two people sitting in a car, staring in different directions, randomly shouting out sentences with no context into thin air… Technology is certainly a weird, weird thing.

Sam steers us onto a highway where Steve is able to put the pedal to the meal (forgive me for that; I know it was atrociously lame) to his heart's content. We weave in and out of traffic, pressing dangerously close to 90 miles per hour. We don't know where we're going or where Bucky is headed but he's certainly being elusive. He can't possibly be on a train now—Sam says we're in a line directly behind him, though far off. There's no train going in this direction anywhere near us. We drive for about half an hour when Sam says, "You guys need to catch up to him soon—the signal is getting weaker. Oh!" he suddenly says, sounding as if he's jumped. "Alright, he pulled off there… Steve, take the next exit on the right!"

Steve takes the next exit and we swirl around in a multiple loop for a moment, feeling dizzier and dizzier, and then we're off again. Steve immediately slows down a bit because we're in a residential area and it's not a very _nice _area. I've lived in areas like this before—tough, unfriendly areas with graffiti on the walls and weeks in the sidewalk cracks. Places where people don't smile and wave hello when passing you on the sidewalk. Places where people put their hands in their pockets and stare at the ground as they pass each other, close in proximity but essences miles away. A real life ghost town. This is what the undesirable areas of America feel like.

And Sam's car sticks out like a beacon. It's not completely uncommon to see a low-riding sports car gliding slowly through a hood…but it's usually accompanied with a thumping bass that vibrates your heart and gang members seated inside. Usually someone higher up on the chain of command. The type of people even I would never dare mess with. But anyone looks at this car, they're going to see two anxious white people and they're going to know we're not a threat—at least not in the way gangbangers are.

"He's close," Sam says suddenly. "He's slowed down…stopped, almost…keep going, you're going to make a turn a few blocks up ahead…"

We slowly drive through town while I stare straight ahead. Places like this, eye contact is asking for a fight. I know—I've initiated fights enough times. You stare at someone and they finally feel your gaze and look up and you keep stared and slowly raise an eyebrow and make a _You want a piece of this? _face. If they're scared, they'll quickly avert their gaze and melt back into the shadows, scampering away. If they're bold, they'll hold out their arms wide like a bird in flight, silently telling you, _Bring it on_.

And then the show is on.

I rub my left upper arm, the phantom pain prickling me like it always does when I think about fights. It's where I have a slash mark. I got it from the worst fight I ever got into, a year and a half ago—someone slashed my arm almost bone-deep. For a few days, I didn't think I'd survive. I eventually had to go to a free clinic to get bandaged up. I've never trusted doctors or clinics—anyone in white coats trying to open you up, prod at you, give you chemicals is suspect to me—but I knew I'd die from an infection if I didn't get fixed up. I'm lucky they even saw me; free clinics usually have lines that go on for days.

It seems that the people that need the most help always get the least help. Funny, how the world works. Except it's not funny at all, it's actually disgusting and classist. I didn't like rich people back in the day—always turning up their noses at us who couldn't afford shiny shoes and new dresses and proper meat—and I don't like them now.

"Turn right," Sam says.

We pull to a stop near an alleyway entrance that's shrouded in darkness. "Are you sure?" Steve asks dubiously, leaning over the steering wheel and trying to peer down the alley. "I'm not sure if…"

"Barnes' dot is stationary down there," says Sam. "I don't know what to tell you. Unless it fell off…"

"Please, let's not think about that," I say. A funny swooping feeling goes through my stomach. It feels sort of like dread. If the tracker's fallen off A) we may never find Bucky again, and B) McCullen tracking systems are garbage (seriously, it shouldn't fall off in under two hours) and I will most definitely sue them.

Steve slowly turns into the alley and we cruise down it at like five miles per hour. Eventually the alley gets too narrow for the car to go any further and we stop. It's shrouded in a lot of darkness because for some reason, there's blankets spread overhead, connecting from one building to another, the way it might be done in an open-air bazaar somewhere in a spice market in Asia. I've never seen it done in America, however.

"I know this area, this isn't a good area," says Sam, his voice sounding a bit more buzzy and distant. "Stay careful, Steve, Vic."

"Don't call me Vic," I say.

"And y'all _better _not let anything happen to my car," he warns.

"We won't," says Steve. "Alright, Victoria, let's go find…" He takes a deep breath. "Let's go find Bucky."

I don't even have enough room to open my car door so I stand up on my seat and clamber onto the hood of the car, wincing the whole time and wondering in what various ways Sam would murder me if he could see what I was doing. Steve does the same thing and I hope his weight hasn't left a dent on Sam's "baby." We both tentatively walk down the alleyway, scanning it for Bucky—and see nothing. Steve's kept me slightly behind him, his arm thrown out and hovering in front of me a bit, but I push past his arm with a cry as I see something laying on the ground a few feet ahead of us. I don't know how I've spotted it in the gloom but I just have: the tracker.

I crouch near it and pick it up, pinching it between fingers and showing it to Steve. "It fell off," I say and I try to swallow back my disappointment. Bucky isn't here. He's gone, the tracker's off him, and we've been on a wild goose chase. He could have gone _anywhere _from this point.

I can see Steve's crestfallen as well. I can't see his eyes very well because of the shadows but I bet you anything they've darkened just a slight bit. His eyes always did, when he got moody or extra-emotional. Such as when he challenged guys much bigger than him to brawls. "Looks like we're back to square one," he says tightly. "New York it is, th—"

_THUMP. _Something slams to the ground behind me and Steve automatically yanks me back a few feet. I whirl around to see—

"Bucky!" Both Steve and I have said it again, at the very same time. We need to stop doing this.

"Why are you two following me?" he asks. His voice is flat but there's a dark, grim tone to it, a tone that says, _I mean business_.

I stare at the ground where he's landed; the ground is crushed slightly. He's created _craters _simply by jumping down from wherever he jumped from. If you don't find that vaguely alarming, then there's something extremely wrong with you. I imagine his boot stomping on someone's face—the delicate bones of the skull—and immediately shudder. Not a pretty picture.

Steve and I glance at each other, quite at a loss for what to say, but we don't have to say anything because Bucky says it for us: "Stop following me. If you keep following me, I'll stop you—and I'll use force, whether necessary or not."

I prickle immediately, like a kicked porcupine, and slam my hands on my hips. "Excuse me," I snap angrily, giving him the meanest glare I can give, which, believe me, is _really _mean. "Was that a threat? I'll have you know, Barnes, that I won't tolerate any threats from the likes of _you_. I wouldn't tolerate any back in the day when you were a cocky son of a gun and I definitely won't tolerate any now, whether you're a memory-wiped assassin with feet that have too much power!"

"Feet that have…what?" Steve hisses.

"Ignore that," I snap. My cheeks are burning but this time it's because of anger. I storm forward. Steve tries to stop me but I shake him off and I stomp over to Bucky. I know it's dangerous and stupid of me—he's already shown he totally has no problem with wantonly attacking me—but I am _furious_. So much Steve and I have gone through over the past decades and the past few years and even the past few days, so many times we've dodged death, so much emotional issues we've both had to face—and for what? For the Winter Soldier to threaten us and disappear? Hell no. Hell if I let him boss us around. I jab him in the chest and to my credit, he actually takes a step back, looking stunned. It's quite possible that no one's ever been bold (or stupid) enough to jab him in the chest.

"You will _not _threaten us," I hiss, "and you will _not _disappear on us! Do you know what Steve and I have been through? At the hands of HYDRA? At the hands of _you_, as the Winter Soldier? And you think we're just going to stand here and let you disappear? HYDRA wins that way! You're not the Winter Soldier, you're Bucky Barnes, and we're your friends, and friends don't abandon friends! Do you hear me?"

"Victoria—" Steve says from behind me.

"FRIENDS DON'T ABANDON FRIENDS!" The words explode form me in a scream of rage and I stand there, chest heaving, taking shaky breaths, feeling power and heat and emotions bubbling inside me like a fizzy drink—sorry, a _soda_—that's been violently shaken. I feel like I'm about to explode and I think I may just destroy everything around me if I do so. I've had enough of emotional pain and trauma. I won't let Bucky Barnes scar me again, whether intentionally or unintentionally.

There's dead silence and Bucky is just staring at us, a mixture of alarm and shock, eyebrows furrowed, mouth slightly open. He's staring at us as if we're aliens, his mouth curled up in what almost looks like _disgust_—but I can tell he's just extremely weirded out. Steve steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder. I don't know why but the weight of his hand calms me down slightly and I take a shaky breath, trying to calm my pounding heart, flexing and unflexing my trembling fingers. I ache to blast something. "Victoria's right," says Steve. "I know you must be confused and scared—"

"I'm not scared of anything," Bucky spits.

"Fine, not scared—but cautious, then," says Steve. "But you _have _to believe us: we're the good guys. And we're your friends. Victoria told me you were at the museum—you _saw_ the photos of us. We were all best friends in the 1930's. I don't know…exactly what HYDRA's done to you but the Bucky Barnes we knew would never become an assassin. HYDRA is an evil group, a group that lives for chaos. They did things to you against their will and they made you do things against your will, which _no one _is blaming you for. I've known people who have been controlled against their will before. HYDRA even held Victoria hostage for decades. They're not the good guys. But you're free of their control now. You should…you should come with us. Be safe. Have a place to stay. Try to remember the man you _really _are, underneath what HYDRA's done to you."

A strange choking sound escapes Bucky's mouth and he shakes his head, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. "I don't…everything is so confusing. I don't know if I can trust you. Or her," he adds, nodding to me.

"Victoria is a rogue," says Steve, "but she's got a heart of gold. She would never hurt you."

"Thank you for calling me a rogue," I say. I'm genuinely touched. It's a compliment to me, to hear that Steve recognizes that I'm tough, not someone to be messed with. Someone who isn't afraid to get a little dark and dirty to achieve what I need.

"Besides," I add roughly, suddenly thinking about the "heart of gold" part and not feeling so sure about it, "you're not the only one who's done bad things. I've killed innocent people too. And I wasn't even being controlled, like you."

"Victoria, I'm not sure that's the best way to convince him you're trustworthy," Steve mutters under his breath.

Oops.

"I don't know," Bucky mutters, still pressing his fingers to his forehead as if he has a massive headache. "I don't—you two—"

For the first time, Steve looks a little frustrated. "You saw the photos," he says. "You know we know you. Why can't you trust us?"

"Steve, stop," I say under my breath. He looks at me and I see Bucky peer at us through his splayed fingers as well, not moving or speaking—but listening. I don't exactly want to say this in front of him but I have no choice. I don't want to exactly say this at _all_ but Steve needs to understand. "You don't know why HYDRA is like," I say in a low voice. "The way they make you doubt your own sanity—doubt the fact that you're alive—that you ever _were_ alive… You're isolated with them. No human contact, except for scientists and strangers who don't talk to you or look at you. You feel fear and pain but also confusion and…even though I _knew _I was Victoria Marsden, that I knew you and Bucky, that I had a life before HYDRA…even I started to doubt myself. Started to wonder if I was real, if I even existed. It was decades of one long nightmare that wouldn't end." I smile at him but it's not a happy smile in any way. "And I'm still screwy from it. My mind…is a bag of cats." I swallow. "And I bet they didn't even do to me _half _of what they did to Bucky." I point to him and he looks a bit startled, the hollows under his eyes really standing out against his white face. His eyes seem a bit glazed. "He had his memory wiped—his sense of who he was taken away—what do you think happened to him? No wonder he can't trust us." I laugh bitterly to myself. "HYDRA makes you doubt you're even human. You can't even trust _yourself_. Why would you ever trust anyone else?"

Steve's face is pale, all the blood drained out of it, and I realize that I've never told him this much in depth about the effect staying with HYDRA has had on me. I think he's starting to see that all three of us ended up in the same spot but the journeys we took to get here were vastly different. Some of us suffered more.

Bucky suffered the most.

I turn back to Bucky and make my voice gentler, softer, almost pleading (which, believe me, is something I do not do on a regular occasion). "Bucky…listen. You heard me. You know I know what HYDRA's like. I know you feel like you can't trust us—and fine, you're right. We can't _force _you to feel like you can't trust us. You probably can't. You've never been around people who haven't attacked you, right? Or…done things to you?" I ask delicately, referring to torture. If _I_ received beatings, I can't even imagine what they did to him. The though turns my stomach painfully. "But you should still come with us. Think about it this way: HYDRA is highly untrustworthy and you spent decades with them. So we're slightly less untrustworthy than they are; you can survive staying with us for a day or two or however long _you _feel comfortable. Kill us in our sleep, if you feel threatened. That's fine."

That's actually really not fine and I really hope he's not taking my suggestion to heart. I'm just trying to give _him _the reigns, make him feel like he's in control. I definitely do not suggest he actually kill us in our sleep. Zero out of ten would recommend.

"Just come with us," I say. "Leave when you want, do what you want, but hear us out. Don't you think we deserve that, after you trying to kill us multiple times?" I'm sort of joking but I'm also sort of serious because come on, he's tried to murder us a few times now and I'm not having any of his "I must away!" dramatic nonsense.

But…he's not responding. He's staring at me, slightly hunched over, and I really can't decide what his expression is: it looks pained but also sort of vague and confused…it's almost like he's staring _through _us. His fingers are twitching slightly, his face is as white as a sheet now, and his face looks really sweaty.

"Whoa, are you okay?" I ask in concern just as he drops to his knees with a thud.

"Bucky!" Steve and I say it simultaneously for the _third _time and we both dart towards him, each of us grabbing him under the armpit and lifting him, though I suspect Steve is doing most of the lifting work. Bucky's eyes flutter slightly and then he groans, lifting his hand to push back sweaty strands of hair from his face. "I'm fine—get the hell off—"

"Like hell," I snap. I press the back of my hand to his forehead and yank it off, exclaiming, "You're burning up!" I look at Steve. "He has a really high fever. We need to get him back home."

"No," Bucky starts faintly but Steve and I are having none of it and we drag him to the car. Steve props Bucky up against the wall and I try my best to hold him up while Steve quickly reverses out of the alley. Then he comes hurrying back to us and helps me drag Bucky and stuff him into the passenger seat. Bucky is slightly awake and he's groaning and mumbling but it's like trying to maneuver a really heavy rag doll into the car and it takes five full minutes of Steve and I shoving him down, yanking him up, and securing him until he's finally buckled in normally. His head lolls forward slightly and I delicately push it back with my finger. It lolls forward again. Awkward.

"Now what?" I ask, turning to Steve and wiping my sweaty forehead. What a workout. I'm going to be so fit with these two guys in my life again—all the running, the chasing, the tackling… "Where am I going to sit?" We both turn to look at the black sports car. It's beautiful and sleek but also small and compact. Oh, and it's a two-seater. And Bucky is currently occupying _my _previous spot.

"You'd better not hurt my baby," Sam warns and both of us jump in shock.

"Holy cow, Sam!" I yelp, slamming a hand to my thundering heart. "I almost forgot you were here!"

Sam chuckles. "Sam Wilson is always watching and listening."

"That's really creepy," I tell him.

"How about the trunk?" Steve suggests.

I glare at Steve.

"Okay, okay," he says, holding his hands up. "Sorry I suggested it." He raises an eyebrow at me. "You're going to have to sit on Bucky's lap."

I stare at Steve for a moment and then I stare at Bucky, who looks kind of like he's dead. I poke him and he groans. Oh good. He's not dead. Then I look back at Steve and give him a side-eye. "Steve…that's _really _weird…" And not just for the obvious reasons. Sitting on the lap of a person who's obviously ill? That's just asking to be vomited on. Also, the thought of sitting on his lap is making my face heat up. I hope no one notices.

"We don't really have a choice," says Steve carefully. "Unless you'd fit at his feet…"

We both lean over to look. No way. A cat wouldn't even fit at his feet.

"Or I could strap you to the hood of the car…" Steve continues. I don't even know if he's joking at this point but I seriously consider it for a—

_Fizzy, are you actually thinking about STRAPPING YOURSELF TO THE HOOD OF A CAR? Have you completely and absolutely finally lost your mind?_

"Okay, fine, his lap it is," I say, curling my mouth in distaste slightly. This is highly awkward. I hate my life. There was a time when this situation would have been highly favorable to me—but not when the guy in question looks half-dead and with my other best friend sitting right next to me and watching me the whole time. I clamber into the car, perching on top of his lap as delicately as I can. I plan on barely touching him. Hovering over him, if you will—except when Steve pulls out of there and hits the highway, I realize that is not possible for two reasons: 1) The cops will see me clearly sitting in an illegal position and pull us over, and 2) The wind and speed hitting me make me feel like I'm going to lift up from my seat and fly out of the car. So I press down onto his lap, sitting sideways, and press my face into his burning-hot neck. My arms wrap around his neck. His head falls forward and rests on my shoulder, the side of his face pressing into my forehead and that's how we remain the whole drive home. Silent. His skin is burning everywhere it touches me and I can feel his sweat and his slightly rattling breath. An overwhelming feeling of sadness hits me and I bite my lip, hoping he'll be alright. The ashen-gray color of his skin does not look normal.

We arrive back at Steve's apartment and it takes longer than it took for us to find Bucky because Steve drives the speed limit. He doesn't want any police pulling us over and asking us questions. His pull as Captain America only goes so far and if Bucky is taken into custody, his metal arm will attract attention—and then HYDRA will know where he is. For all we know, actually, HYDRA has also infiltrated law enforcement across the country. Who knows how far their poisonous tentacles have reached?

Steve and I both drag Bucky up the stairs to Steve's apartment. We pass one very suspicious looking mother going down the stairs with some laundry and I chuckle weakly and tell her, "Had a bit too much to drink—you know grad students!" Her look of suspicion turns scandalized and Steve hurriedly pushes us past her, looking at me and asking, "Grad school student? Hobo might have made more sense."

"Yeah, because people regularly carry passed out _hobos _to their apartments," I say sarcastically. We pull Bucky into Steve's apartment and Sam immediately springs up to help, helping Steve carry him to Steve's bed.

"We need medicine," Sam says, examining Bucky with a slightly worried expression. "Dude looks to be in bad shape. Steve, got any Motrin?"

Somehow we manage to force a pill down Bucky's throat, forcing him to drink water—he wakes up slightly enough to choke, splutter, spill water on all of us, cough, gag, and attempt to punch Steve—but he eventually swallows the pill and he slumps back down onto the pillow. His eyes are open to slits and I can't tell if he's awake or asleep but he's not moving or saying anything. Just feverishly staring up at the ceiling with half-lidded glazed eyes. Bright pink spots cover his once-pale cheeks and I tell Steve to bring me cold wet towels. He brings me some and I drape them across Bucky's forehead.

"This is all we can do," I say, sitting on the floor by Steve's bed. It's low enough that I can still sit on the floor and rest my chin on the mattress of the bed. "His fever should go down. If it doesn't go down by tomorrow, we'll…" I pause. We can't take him to the hospital. "We'll think of something. Help me take his jacket off, he must be burning up. He needs to let the fever build until it breaks. Once he's sweating and shivering, he'll be fine."

"Did you become a doctor when we weren't looking?" Sam asks, helping me take Bucky's overly-large baggy forest green jacket off. It's dirty and stained. I wrinkle my nose and shove it at Sam. "Throw it away. Ugh."

"Her mother was a nurse," Steve answers for me, taking the jacket instead and tossing it into a corner. "Come on, let's let him rest."

"I want to stay," I say.

"Victoria, he's fine," Steve says gently. "He's not going to be able to talk to you anyway."

"I know," I say stubbornly. "But I want to stay anyway."

Steve must sense something in my tone, see something in my face, because he realizes I'm not about to give in—so he nods and says, "Well, you know where to find us. We'll be right outside if you need anything." He and Sam file out the door, closing it behind them to give us some privacy.

Privacy. Ha. I give a weak, sarcastic chuckle to myself. Privacy is only something you need when you have something to say. I have nothing to say. I know he can't say anything back anyway, not in his current condition.

I just want to…be near him.

I fold my arms on the mattress and lean my chin on them, staring at him. His face is pink and white, splotchy, and his expression doesn't look very peaceful. He's asleep but he's not safe, not even in his dreams. I wonder what he dreams about.

I wonder if he dreams at all.

His chest rises and falls slowly and I reach and press my hand against his cheek. It feels rough from him not shaving and his skin burns but I keep my hand pressed against his cheek for a long, long time. Then I lightly touch his metal arm. It feels cool to the touch and looks strange, peeking out from the sleeve of his t-shirt, as if it's some prop that doesn't match up with the rest of him. I wonder if he can feel my touch. A minute later my question is answer because he stirs in response to me drawing a circle on the back of his metal hand. So he can feel… I clasp his metal hand lightly, hoping he can feel me even in his nightmares. Hoping he'll anchor himself to me and claw himself out of whatever hell he's in. Hoping that he'll wake up as the man I once loved. Still love.

I don't know how long I sit there, counting his breaths, making sure he's alive. He's alive and he's not leaving and he's not vanishing. He's alive and I can hear Sam and Steve speaking in low murmurs outside. Steve is alive. No one is leaving. No one is leaving me and maybe we're all a little distorted and jagged and raw, maybe we're bleeding from wounds we have and hurt we've experienced, but we're together and alive. I sit there and no one disturbs me and that's where I eventually fall asleep, my head on the mattress, legs folded uncomfortably underneath me.

One ghost holding the hand of another.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, lovelies, it's been a busy week! Hope you enjoy and review.**

* * *

I don't know how long I've been asleep there but when Steve shakes me awake, the sky is dark and my legs and torso are stiff and aching from sitting-sleeping at such an awkward angle. "Whatimeizit?" I slur through my sleepy haze. I glance sleepily at Bucky but he's still asleep or passed out, whichever it is.

"Shhh," whispers Steve. "It's eleven at night." He leads me out of the room and I stumble after him like a zombie. He pushes me towards a sofa and I collapse onto it, falling back asleep almost immediately. My sleep is punctuated with a strange mix of nightmare and dreams…

_I'm leaning against a tree in Durant Park, arms crossed, watching them in the distance. My mouth is pressed into a flat line. There are picnic tables and chairs and the girls all wear beautiful dresses, though some of them are secondhand. It doesn't matter. Their mothers are dressed up as well. Curled hair, pearls gleaming on the necks and ears of those who can afford them (or perhaps they're paste?), and sashes tied around slim waists. The annual Mother Daughter picnic hosted by my high school is well underway. They rent out a section of the park every year for this. _

_ No one can see me from where I stand. Good. If anyone saw me…they'd either pity me or make fun of me. I'm not an orphan but I may as well be, for all my father pays attention to me. I think about my mother. I think about her, try to remember her smell. I miss you. _

_ "It doesn't matter, you know."_

_ I turn to see Bucky leaning against the tree, raising an eyebrow, hands in his pockets. He's wearing summer clothes. It's hot out. _

_ "It doesn't matter what they say," he says. "Or that you can't go."_

_ "How would you know?" I ask, pressing my fingertips to either side of my nose and exhaling. _

_ "One day, Victoria," he says, grabbing my hand and pointing to the sky with it, "we're all going to get out of here. We're going to see the world."_

_ I slide down the tree and gaze longingly at the picnic. "I don't think that matters right now." I close my eyes. I miss Mother so much right now. I miss her every year at this time but the pain seems to get worse every year I grow older. What are girls supposed to do without their mothers? _

_ "You're right," he says, sitting down next to me. "Sorry. I can't understand. But she's watching you, you know. She'd be proud of you."_

_ "I hope so." I lean my head against his shoulder and close my eyes. Suddenly the air feels warm and the light from behind my eyelids goes dark. I open my eyes and I'm standing in a crowd, people passing me, laughing and talking and holding sticks of cotton candy._

_ I spin in a circle. Where am I? A carnival. A fair. _

_ The World Expo. _

_ I turn and see myself in the distance, talking to a familiar figure. I walk forward as if in a dream and watch, transfixed, as I see my past self snap at Bucky. _

_ "Don't do this," I whisper but nothing comes out of my mouth. I'm a shadow. A ghost. No one can hear me, not even myself. _

_ I watch myself storm away without a backwards glance, vanishing into the crowds. I then do what I didn't do in the past: turn to look at Bucky. _

_ He's standing there, mouth a flat line, staring after me, shaking his head slightly. He seems disappointed. A cold fissure cracks in my heart. _

_ But his eyes. He also seems…sad. _

_ He's sad to see me go._

_ I'm sad to see myself go too. _

_ "I miss you," I mouth to myself, not sure if I'm talking to Bucky or to my past self, the girl I sometimes feel like is slowly vanishing. _

_ I sink down to the ground of the exposition, people walking past me, no one noticing me, and I cover my head with my arms, pressing my hands to my ears. I don't want to be here anymore. And suddenly, all the noise of the crowd cuts away, and there is silence._

_ Silence. _

My eyes snap open.

Silence.

I slowly sit up, rubbing my eyes and pressing the heels of my hand to the backs of my eyes, remembering my strange dreams. It seems meeting Bucky again and bringing him home has awakened memories I've suppressed so deep that even I didn't remember hiding them. I can't remember which were reality and which are merely fiction…but I remember feeling wretched over those Mother Daughter picnics…

"Are you alright?" Steve suddenly rounds the corner and he looks just a little worried. "You were…mumbling in your sleep. You looked disturbed."

I swallow. This could either be extremely humiliating or…well, extremely humiliating seems to be the only option. "What was I saying?"

" 'I miss you'," Steve says.

I sigh with relief. Oh. That's actually not so bad. Steve has no idea who I was saying it to. In fact…_I'm _not even sure I know who exactly I was saying it to. Already my dreams are slipping from my mind…

What were they even about? I can't seem to recall.

Huh. Oh well.

"How's Bucky?" I ask, standing up and stretching.

"Still out cold," says Steve, "but his fever broke, just like you said. He was shivering but I gave him a blanket. He's still sleeping."

I want to see him. But first: hygiene. I shower, brush my teeth, and get dressed. Then I eat breakfast. Steve, bless his soul, has finally managed to go out at some point and stock the fridge and pantry properly with food. I don't want to know how he's survived up until these point, especially considering he looks like he needs a lot of food to keep his energy up—but I'm going to have to council him on how to keep a stocked kitchen. I eat breakfast and then we both head into Steve's bedroom.

"Where did you sleep last night?" I ask.

"Couch opposite you." He winces and rubs his neck. "I need to get bigger sofas."

The blinds are drawn in Steve's room so muted daylight filters into the room, giving it a slightly depressing look. Bucky is asleep on Steve's bed, his human arm thrown over his eyes, a blanket thrown over him. I bent over him and gently press my hand to his cheek. He doesn't stir. He feels clammy, sweaty, but the fever's broken so I don't think we need to worry. His breathing sounds clearer too.

A sudden thought hits me and I ask, "Do you think he heals faster than normal people?" in awe, turning to stare at Steve.

Steve blinks and stares at Bucky.

"Well?" I ask. "Do _you _heal faster?"

"Yeah," says Steve, sounding stunned. "I guess…I guess he might, too, if he's been given a super-soldier serum."

I roll my eyes. Of course he's been given a super-soldier serum. He was punching and kicking with force that definitely wasn't human. Like I said earlier: feet with too much power. I cross the room and pick up the jacket that Steve threw in the corner earlier. I shake it out and study it. It's an oversized olive-green jacket with shearling wool inside. It looks dirty and it's definitely not stylish. I mean, unless you're a hipster. It seems hipsters live by a "The uglier it is, the more we like it" code. I bring it close and sniff it.

"Ugh," I say, making a _yuck _face. "It smells like sweat and old cheese and cigarettes. Bucky doesn't smoke, does he?"

"I hardly think the Winter Soldier was allowed to _smoke_," Steve says. "It's probably the smell of whoever owned the jacket before Bucky."

Oh, gross. I immediately drop the jacket with a shudder. I'm used to filth and dirt, having lived in not the best of conditions for the past four years, but I'm used to my _own _filth. Some random man's filth is completely a different scenario. I hope I haven't contracted any sort of disease.

"I can't believe you just sniffed the jacket," Steve adds. I look at him and he has a mildly grossed-out expression on his face.

"What?" I ask. "Smell can give you a lot of clues. Where they've been recently, what they've eaten, who they've associated with…"

"So what did you find out?" Steve asks, humoring me.

I kick the jacket away. "Nothing. Like you said, those smells probably belong to whoever owned this before Bucky. He probably stole it recently. I don't think he was wearing it at the museum." I look at Steve and raise an eyebrow. "But I have found out something."

"What?"

"His fashion sense needs help," I say. "Much like yours does as well."

"Come on, I've _got _to look better than a _hobo_," Steve argues. "Old-fashioned, maybe, but I don't look like _him_!" He nods to Bucky's still form.

"True," I admit. "You're better than that. Only slightly, though."

We both chuckle and the sounds are kind of awkward. I realize we're just forcing our humor, forcing jokes and easy talk out of our mouths, to avoid talking about anything heavy or serious. We've just gotten Bucky back—I think we've both had enough of _heavy _for quite some time. I don't think either of us are in the mood to face any more demons any time soon.

"Right," Steve says suddenly, "so listen…I have a few errands to run. A few things to buy. But I didn't know if you were comfortable being alone with him, so I thought I'd ask." He nods toward Bucky.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I ask.

"Well, he did try to strangle you," Steve points out. "He's not harmless."

"But he's sick," I counter. "I don't think he's fit to be fighting right now. Go run your errands. I'll be fine. I have a cell phone now, remember?"

"Yeah, you do," says Steve. "Alright then. I mean, I'd take you with me—but we can't leave Bucky completely alone."

"No, seriously, I'll be fine," I say. "He's still asleep. He probably won't even wake up at all."

(Which shows, in retrospect, how good _my _judgment is. As in, it totally sucks and I'm really bad at predicting the future.)

Steve nods, still looking a bit worried (probably because the bruises on my throat look way uglier today, and they're hurting more too, not that he would know that part) but he shrugs on his jacket and leaves, promising me again that he's only a phone call away. And then he's gone, closing the door quietly behind him. The apartment is silent. I can hear the faint drip of the leaky shower from beyond the room and I take a few minutes to do a few ridiculous stretches, the kind where you contort your body in weird ways and make noises like a strangled kitten because your sore muscles are being stretched in ways that doesn't make them happy. Good thing no one can see me.

Unless—

Unless he _can. _I tip toe over to Bucky and bent down over him. Inspect his chest. His breathing is deep and even. I gingerly pull his left eyelid up. His eye stares creepily and blankly at me and I quickly let go. Nope. That's a thing I definitely should not do.

Unsure of what to do now, I sit on the bed next to him and stare at him.

That's right, I stare at him. Not like in a creepy way or anything. But I haven't anything else to do—and besides, I haven't really gotten the chance to peacefully see his face in quite literally decades. I've had time to get used to Steve being by my side again but Bucky…

"I can feel you staring at me." He suddenly speaks, his eyes still closed shut, and I can't help myself: I let out a startled shriek and launch myself off the bed, staggering back, hand clapped to my pounding heart. My hands are tingling from the sudden rush of shock through my veins. A glass on the nightstand rattles slightly from the sudden spasm of power that burst out of me.

_Oy, Fizzy, control yourself. _

"Holy—holy mother of God!" I gasp as he opens his eyes and then slowly, almost mechanically, sits up and stares at me. He rubs his eyes, pushes his hair away from his face and then his hands—both flesh and metal—fall onto his blanket-covered lap. He sits there and stares at me with a strangely blank expression. I stare back at him and for a few awkward, tense moments, we're both just staring at him. I can't tell at all what he's thinking and he probably can't tell what I'm thinking because I've put my emotionless mask on my face.

"I was awake this whole morning," he says in a slightly monotone voice.

"What?" I squawk. "Even when I opened your eye?"

He nods. Oh my god. That is so weird of him. He is so weird. Who pretends to be asleep when someone is _prodding _their eye?

Oh my. He also heard me making fun of his clothes.

"Are you going to attack me again?" I ask cautiously. I want to sit down next to him and talk to him but I remember all too well what happened the last time it was just the two of us.

He shakes his head. "No. I remember…what you offered earlier. And you…nursed me back to health."

"Well, it was a team effort," I say awkwardly, gingerly sitting down on the bed next to him. I look at him and he looks at me and honestly the staring between us is getting a bit weird so I cough and clear my throat and say, "Right, well…you're here now. You can ask any questions you want. But…you do know that you're Bucky Barnes, right? You do remember your old self?"

He winces, his hand flying to his forehead like it's hurting him. "Sort of," he says. "Not completely. I have memories…but they're so mixed up. I don't know what's real and what's not real. I don't…I don't know what happened to me…or who I am…"

Oh boy. This is going to be a doozy.

I take a deep breath and launch right into it. "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes," I say almost robotically. "But everyone called you Bucky. You were born in 1921 and raised in Brooklyn, New York. You have—um, had—a mother, a father, and a baby sister. They've all passed away now. Steve Rogers and I, Victoria Marsden, were your best friends. You liked fixing cars and motorcycles as a hobby. You liked dancing and pretty girls and you always saved Steve when he got into fights with bigger guys. You didn't like school but you did well in it. You were good at P.E. and you almost joined the track and field team but then you didn't because Steve couldn't join it and you didn't want to leave him out. You never beat me in a race, though." A hint of smugness comes into my tone but I try not to let it show because he can probably beat me now. My victory is old news. "You were drafted for the war and you became sergeant of the 107th. Steve went to war after he became Captain America soon after. I don't know exactly what happened at war…but we got word of your death half a year later. Then we got news of Captain America's death. And then…" I shrug. "HYDRA came for me."

Bucky stares blankly at me. I can't tell if he's taken in anything I've said. Great. Have I just told this whole story for no reason? I wave my hand in front of his face. "Hello. Earth to Bucky. Did you h—"

"Stop." He grabs my wrist in an iron grip and believe me, it _hurts_.

"If you could stop crushing my wrist, that'd be nice," I say pleasantly but there's a dangerous tone in my voice. He doesn't listen to me, just keeps staring at me while the pressure on my wrist is getting tighter—is he even aware of what he's doing?—so I flick my fingers forcefully in the direction of his face and his head snaps back as if he's been flicked in the face _hard_. The pressure on my wrist disappears as he lets go and rubs his nose.

"Why did you do that?" he growls.

"You were breaking my wrist," I snap. "You may have been forced to be the Winter Soldier by HYDRA but here's your first lesson for re-entering the normal world: you can't just physically attack whoever is bothering you, Bucky. That's not okay."

"I—" He looks slightly taken back. "I…didn't realize what I was doing. I—I—"

"It's fine," I say abruptly, knowing he's trying to find the words for an apology…but it looks so painful that I decide to give him a break. I flex my wrist, wincing, and then ask, "So, do you remember any of that?"

"Bits and pieces," he says, sounding frustrated. He's frowning at his hands, both human and metal, as if he's never quite realized what they're capable of. I wonder how many innocent people he's murdered with those hands, how many lives he's taken. Even if he was being brainwashed and controlled, he's still pulled the trigger, hasn't he? People are dead because of him. I wonder if any of them have been children. Bucky Barnes hated bullies, hated people who picked on those smaller and weaker and more defenseless than them. But isn't _everyone _weaker than the Winter Soldier? No one ever had a fair chance against him.

Oooh. Maybe I shouldn't think about this. Chills are going down my spine.

"What made you…um…start remembering?" I ask. "Because you were trying to kidnap me and kill Steve—on HYDRA's orders, I assume—but then you…" _You pulled us out of the river_. _So you _must _have some Bucky Barnes in you. _

"I don't know," he says hollowly. "It's… With HYDRA… I always just… I followed orders. I _follow_ orders. I didn't think… I never even _thought _about thinking… I…" He trails off. It's the most painful, confused, and vague speech I've ever heard in my life and it's clear from his puzzled, pained expression and blank eyes and straining eyebrows that he's struggling. He's struggling badly to understand _anything_. Who he was before, who he was with HYDRA, who he is now. He clearly still has violent and murderous urges. He has control issues. He's having memory flashbacks.

Basically, the guy's a walking, talking mess.

"You know what?" I stand up. "It's okay. You don't have to remember anything right now. And"—I take a deep breath—"I know you've done…uh, violent things as the Winter Soldier. Killed people. But HYDRA obviously did a number on you so try not to worry about it too much right now. We have files on you if you want information on what was done to you. And we have lots of time to help you with your memories. You're safe here. You don't have to follow anyone's orders." I pause and think for a moment. "Except, okay, I order you to try to not murder anyone while you're here. You should probably follow that order. You know, because most of us enjoy being alive."

He looks up at me and I can't read his expression. He studies me, his mouth pressed into a flat line and he looks downright dangerous for a moment, a predatory gleam in his eyes—but then it vanished back to dullness and he looks empty and lonely and childlike again. I don't know what I've just seen—it looked like a bit of the Winter Soldier just resurfaced and scanned me as if I'm going to be future victim of his—but I don't like it. I take a step back but he's not looking at me now. He's staring at the wall opposite from the bed. "Okay," he says quietly. "I can do that."

_I really hope so, buddy._

"Thanks," I say. I sense that he wants—or needs—to be left alone right now so I inch towards the door. He doesn't watch me go. Right before I leave, however, I say, in a rush, "It's good to have you back, Bucky, because I've missed you a lot," and then I flee, slamming the door shut behind me and leaning against it. My face is burning and I cover my face with my hands. I'm an idiot. What possessed me to say something so emotional and dorky and awkward? What the hell is he supposed to do with my statement? Thank me? I hope he ignores it. I hope he ignores everything I've ever said to him because clearly I'm a socially-incompetent moron who needs to learn when to shut up.

My face is burning so I pace wildly around the apartment, fanning it and trying to calm down. I'm torn between agonizing over my stupidity and freaking out over the fact that Bucky Barnes—someone who I seriously thought I'd never see again—is laying in the other room. Even when I first figured out that Bucky was the Winter Soldier, I'd had my doubts about ever seeing him again. He could have killed us all or died himself or disappeared… There had been no guarantees that he'd emerge from the battle safe and willing to come with us.

But here he is now.

Maybe he's bored. A sudden idea strikes me and I hurry over to Steve's bookshelf and run my fingers across the spines of the various books lined up there. What would Bucky like to read? I can't quite recall. He wasn't much of a reader. I was the reader of the group, in fact… My eyes fall upon _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. _I do remember him reading and liking this. Would he still like it decades later? Perhaps it'll jog some memories or something. At the very least, it'll give him something to do to. I yank it out of the shelf and head towards the bedroom.

Just before entering, I pause. Why exactly did I think Bucky would want to _read_ right now? Doubt floods me. He's tired and recovering from a fever and confused and God knows what other mix of weird and probably dangerous emotions. Why would he want to read a silly book about a silly boy and his silly adventures? He'd probably give me a scornful look if I handed this to him.

_Nice save, Victoria_. I breathe a sigh of relief that I haven't indulged in even more stupidity and quickly slide the book back in the bookshelf. I stand there, torn for a moment, not sure what to do next. Do I go in and check on Bucky? Do I clean the apartment? Do I watch TV and try to catch up the rest of the universe? I see Steve has lots of DVDs of a TV show called _The Walking Dead. _That sounds fascinatingly morbid. Maybe I should watch it.

Maybe I should see if Bucky needs anything. Like food. Or water. Yes, water is good.

I'm trying to stop myself from barging back into his room but it's like he's a magnet and he's pulling me back to him. I can't resist. I can't stop myself. I want to see his face again, even if it's gaunt and unshaven and kind of scary and mean. I can have scary and mean expressions now too, so we're not that different. I grab a banana from the basket on the counter and shakily fill a glass of water from the tap (Steve needs to seriously get with the century and get a filter) and then head into the room after knocking twice.

"Thought you might be thirsty," I say in a hurry, before he has time to speak, "so here!" I thrust the glass clumsily at him and water slops over the edge and onto his lap. My cheeks heat up. What the heck is wrong with me? Why is he unnerving me so badly? I need to get a grip. I sigh and set the glass down on the bedside table along with the banana. "Sorry. That was my mistake. One moment…" Rubbing my temples, I hurry from the room to the tiny linen closet in the hallway. I need to stop acting like a fool. I'm not acting like myself.

I'm acting…_weak_.

The thought of seeming weak suddenly powers me to adjust my attitude immediately. I need to shut off my feelings if I want to deal with Bucky. It's clear that I can't be near him if I don't turn off my emotions. I take a deep breath and compose my face, forcing my heart to get a little icier. _It's for the best_. I yank out a blanket and hurry into the room, thrusting it at his face and yanking the wet one off his lap. "Sorry," I repeat and my voice is cooler now. "My hand slipped. Try to sleep. I'll see you later." I leave the room, closing the door behind me, and drape the wet blanket over the back of a sofa.

Now what? I sit on the sofa and bury my face in my hands. I don't know what to do with myself. My emotions are amped up and I'm trying to stifle them as badly as I can but the effort is making my hands tremble. I feel twitchy and out-of-sorts. I hear a slight tinkle and look up in shock. I've accidentally knocked over a teacup sitting on an end table a few feet away. It hasn't shattered, thankfully, just chipped. Whoa. My emotions must be seriously on high voltage if I was able to do that with no concentration at all.

_Deep breaths, girl. Destroying the apartment isn't going to help anyone. _

I lean back on the couch, my face still covered, and that's how I remain until the front door opens and Steve steps inside, the sound of plastic bags rustling all around him. "Are you okay?" he asks, sounding alarmed. "Did something happen?"

"No, no, I'm fine," I say, rubbing my face and standing up to face Steve. "Bucky's fine too," I add before Steve can ask. I can see the worry in his eyes for his best friend. Steve has always been easy to read. "He's resting." I neglect to mention that he's awake and that I've made a fool of myself twice in front of him in less than half an hour. That's got to be some sort of world record.

I start pulling stuff out of bags to help put things away. There are some groceries but also some office supplies and twine and some other random things that I can't think what he needs for but I'm not really going to ask either way. "So what do we do now?" I ask. "We were going to go find Bucky but he sort of found us instead. And SHIELD is done…right?"

"Mostly," says Steve heavily, looking at a package of feta cheese as if he's not quite sure why he bought it. "There are still loyal agents and locations left. But SHIELD is no longer a government official agency. It's a mess."

"Is anyone going to rebuild it?" I ask, looking down at a pile of fifteen Post-It note packs and wondering why anyone needs this many Post-Its. Was Steve feeling okay when he ran his errands? He's also bought a tin of sardines and I have no idea why—

Oh. Wait. Bucky liked sardines. In fact… Looking around at most of the seemingly-strange things Steve's gotten, I realize a lot of it has to do with Bucky. Bucky liked sardines and olives and bananas and—

Oh my god. I've given him a banana, left it on the table next to him. A Cavendish banana. A complete different banana than the kind we ate back in the day. The culture (and taste) shock will probably make him pass out. Bucky really used to love bananas, he took them quite seriously.

I hope he doesn't hate me for this. This is now how I wanted to introduce the new banana to him. It doesn't help that it's not as tasty as the banana breed we used to eat.

"We're going to try," Steve responds. "There are more loyal SHIELD agents left around the world than HYDRA knows. It's just going to be difficult to regroup and work together. Things are chaotic right now."

"I can imagine," I murmur.

"But my first priority is Bucky," Steve says, sticking his head in the fridge and shoving jars and cans inside there. "Helping him get better."

"Mmmm," I say noncommittally. "Well, here's your chance because he's here right now."

No, like he's _literally _here. He's just slowly walked into the open area between the small kitchen and the living room, looking a bit haggard and sick and walking slightly as if he's sore or perhaps had both legs broken twice. The walking dead, indeed. Still, he's walking and that's better than when he was collapsing.

"What?" Steve calls, head and torso still in the fridge.

"Bucky," I say, not taking my eyes off of Bucky, who's also staring at me. "He's here." I clear my throat. "Like, he's right here and looking at you."

"What?!" Steve tries to stand upright but apparently forgets he's bent over in the fridge because he slams his head into the top of the fridge and slowly backs out, staggering slightly and groaning, rubbing the back of his head.

Bucky's left eyebrow rises slightly.

I roll my eyes. "Nice first—second—third?—no, I think this is the fifth—nice fifth impression, Steve."

"Bucky!" Steve hurries around the counter towards Bucky. Oh right, I've just realized that Steve hasn't actually had an actual conversation with alert and not-murderous Bucky yet. I don't know what he intends to do—hug Bucky? Shake his hand?—but Bucky takes a step back, looking alarmed, a defensive light entering his eyes.

"Whoa, whoa," Steve says, stopping and holding up his arms in the universal _I'm safe _signal. "I'm not going to…" His voice trails off and he says, "Never mind. Here, take a seat—you're probably tired." He motions to the sofas, seeming almost afraid to guide Bucky there. Good decision. He'd probably try strangling Steve too, if he put his hands on him. Bucky looks suspicious for a moment but then he slowly and stiffly walks over to the sofa and gingerly sits down, almost as if he's expecting the sofa to blow up on him or something.

"Do you want something to drink? Eat?" Steve asks.

"She gave me a banana and water," he says and then he glares at me. I gulp. I don't know if the glare is because I dropped water all over him—or because the banana is a new type of banana. "Victoria did," he adds slowly, as if he's hesitant to say my name. It sounds strange coming from his low, hoarse voice accompanied with his wary expression.

"Anything else?" Steve presses. "You should probably take another Motrin…"

"I'm fine," Bucky says.

"But—"

"No meds," Bucky says slowly, tightly. Anger is laced into his every word. Steve looks shocked for a moment but then he nods and backs away.

"That's fine," he says. "That's—yeah, that's totally fine." He sounds almost like he's reassuring _himself_. Poor Steve. This has got to be taking a major toll on him. I always dealt with stress better than Steve did; I always internalize it, turn it inwards, make it private. I bundle up it up, have done so since the very beginning. But Steve…Steve is so honest and open that being under a constant state of stress makes him start falling apart. He can't keep it in for forever. He starts getting a bit _weird_, if you know what I mean. I remember in the weeks after his mother died and he was left an orphan, he seemed very strange then too.

He sits down on the couch opposite from Bucky and I sit on the small one in between them. Then we all sort of sit there in silence for a few minutes, darting glances at each other, until I finally clear my throat and say, "Well, this is awkward."

"How?" Steve says gratefully, seizing upon a topic to talk about. Although it's pretty self-explanatory why this is awkward. But alright, I'll bite.

"Well, to start with," I say, "we all should be _dead_. Or old people close to dying. But mostly dead, since you two definitely were going to die in the war." I shrug helplessly. "And look. Here we are. None of us look a day over twenty-five…" I let out an incredulous laugh as I stare at my youthful hands. Smooth, unlined, with no wrinkles to show a life long-lived and well-worn. The only things I have on my body…are scars. Scars from my fights and beatings.

I hope Steve never sees them. Knowing him, he'd blame himself for every wound I've received. He'd say he should have been there to protect me or something, the way Bucky always protected him.

And Bucky…well, I'm not sure if he'd care. I glance at him and our eyes meet. They're distant; there's no flicker of emotion or caring. It's like he's recognizing me but there's no feeling of happiness over finding me _or _Steve again.

"You're staying with us now, right?" I ask Bucky. "You're not going to go and…be an assassin again, right?" It's such a stupid question but honestly, he looks so dangerous that I kind of feel like I need to ask.

He looks like he's thinking and Steve and I give him his time. Finally he says, "I don't know what to do." He presses a hand to his forehead. "I remember you…but…" He looks up and his gaze is haunted now. "I've done so much. I don't know who I am anymore."

"You're J—"

"I know, I _know_," he snaps, sudden viciousness flooding his tone. I snap my mouth shut and stiffen. "Sor—" He passes his metal hand over his eyes as if trying to wipe something away from them. "I just meant…I don't feel like I'm him. That man. James Barnes. I've killed a lot of people."

"So have I," Steve says resolutely.

"So have…okay, well not a _lot_," I say, "but I've killed people. And I've done it brutally," I add moodily, thinking of Will again. He's the one who haunts me the most but he's not the only person I've hurt. He's just the only person I hurt who I really cared about—until now. Suddenly every person I hurt is starting to matter to me. I think hanging around with Steve Rogers again is rubbing off on me. I've been feeling a bit goody-two-shoes lately.

"You're a superhero or something," Bucky says in a quiet voice, looking at Steve. "You've killed the bad guys. I _am _the bad guy. I've killed normal people."

"I've still killed," says Steve stubbornly. "And let me tell you something, Bucky. I've said it before and I'll say it again. In fact, I'll say it always because it's _true_. I hate bullies. I don't want to kill and I don't like hurting people but sometimes it's necessary to stop bullies."

"And I'm not a bully?" Bucky asks flatly.

"Did you choose to kill?" Steve asks. "Did you make the decision?"

"No…" Bucky says slowly, "but I—"

"In fact," I cut in, "did you even realize killing is wrong?"

Bucky blinks.

"I'm going to take that as a no," I say. "HYDRA brainwashed you, Bucky. And wiped your memories. And tortured you. It's all in your file." My mouth flattens slightly. Talking about Bucky's file is sort of like sucking on the bitterest lemon you can find. Leaves an acid taste in your mouth and your face all puckered up. And this is coming from me after just flipping through it. I couldn't stomach seeing a lot of the notes on the testing and trials he'd gone through; it brought back memories of my own, though mine were less severe than his. Steve, however, combed through the file. He knows exactly what's been done to Bucky.

"In fact," I continue, "it's only after you sort of regained some memories that you even realized hurting people is wrong. _Began _to realize," I correct. I point to my bruised throat and raise my eyebrows. "I don't think you're completely aware yet."

Bucky has the good grace, at least, to look _somewhat _abashed. Though only slightly.

"Looking at your files, you needed regular memory wiping and psychological manipulation," says Steve. "I think…I think the longer you stay away from HYDRA, the more you'll regain of your old self. So what do you say? Stick with us? Victoria and I, we're not going to abandon you. You have a home with us." His expression is trying to remain upbeat but I can tell he's anxious Bucky is going to refuse and vanish on us.

Bucky crosses his arms, wincing slightly, and his expression looks very mutinous and angry. Almost like he wants to get up and kill everyone in the room, including himself. He glares at both of us, one of his legs shaking and his foot tapping the floor very rapidly. His glare flicks from Steve to me, back to Steve, back to me, back to Steve… He seems to be chewing the inside of his mouth in a furious attempt to think through _something_. I want to tell him to spit it out but he looks close to losing it so I keep my mouth shut for once.

Finally he spits, "Fine, I'll stay. But only," he adds, "because I have nothing else to do and only because I _know _you two but I can't connect the dots." He sounds frustrated. "So I'll stay. But you guys try anything," he warns, "and I'll disappear."

I have no idea what he means by "trying anything" and I have no doubt that I'll immediately break his rule by trying something and infuriating him, but hey, that's me and he's just going to have to get used to it! Steve struggles to not look extremely pleased for a moment, contorting his face into an unnatural emotionless mask until I roll my eyes and lean forward and pat his arm. "Steve. You can smile. It's okay."

And then Steve's face lights up like the sun and he smiles the kind of smile that can cure diseases and make babies laugh and angry old people half-smile in a cranky sort of way. "Don't worry," he promises, though I'm not sure if he's talking to Bucky or me or even himself. "This is all going to work out. We're all going to make this work out and we'll be fine."

I sure hope so, Steve. I sure hope so.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Alrighty, folks! First chapter for the sequel to "Heading Home" is posted. It's called "The Second Trial." If you liked "Heading Home" I hope you like the new story as well! And thanks for everyone who's still sticking with Victoria & Co. I'm not sure when I'll end this story; it could end sooner or go on for longer. I'm debating! **

**Also, not sure if I've mentioned this before, but for the purpose of this story, Bucky never trained Natasha in the Red Room.**

* * *

In the two days since Bucky's come home, I've realized two very important things about him: One, he almost never speaks. And when I say almost never, I _mean _almost never. He's exchanged about two words with me in as many days. It's not like I expect him to be some talkative chatterbox (really, what would we even chatter about?) but is asking for a simple "Thank you," too much? I _did _save the guy's life, even after he tried to take mine approximately four times. (I definitely count the time in the park as a murder attempt; he could have broken my spine with that flip.) And two, he's a very weird guy. He does things that are definitely not normal and I'm not sure if I should handle him gently or harshly.

For example: he has a strange tendency to pick up knives and hold them in vaguely threatening manners for absolutely no reason at all. This happens on the third night and it's quite alarming. I'm standing in the kitchen mashing potatoes because I've been, you know, craving mashed potatoes and suddenly I can _sense _someone standing behind me. I don't know how I can sense it because I haven't heard anything but I could that weird prickly feeling—so I spin around to find Bucky standing _right behind me holding a knife._

"JESUS!" I spring away from him and my hands immediately lift in a half-defensive position. My heart is thundering. "What—what are you doing?" I gasp.

He's standing there holding a serrated kitchen knife and he looks a bit blank for a moment before he says, "I don't know. I saw it…so I took it."

Is that like his life motto? _I saw it so I took it_. He certainly tried that with _me_. Didn't really work out so well, but you know.

"Right," I say, edging forward slowly. "Listen, I know you like knives, but you can't just do that anymore. So if you'd just…" I reach out to take the knife from him. "Give that to me…"

He holds the blade out of my reach and then he presses it against my face, right on my cheek. Gently. Slowly. He tilts his head and there's an almost curious expression on his face, like I'm an experiment or a lab rat and he wants to see how I'll react.

I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of screaming or panicking. I'm not that weak. I've been in knife fights before.

I mean, none of them were against a skilled and dangerous assassin. But still, I've been in knife fights before and I've been stabbed before too. This is nothing new.

So I cross my arms and give him the hardest, coldest look I can. "And what do you think you're doing?"

He presses the tip to my cheek a little deeper—I feel a sharp pinch there—and there's something very strange about his eyes: they almost look possessed. He looks like he wants to kill me. I'm being confident and cold but I'm starting to sweat a little because jeez, why isn't he putting the knife down—

And then suddenly his eyes flicker and shock crosses his face and he quickly steps back. He looks down at his hands and they twitch. The knife drops to the floor. It has a drop of red on it. I press my fingers to my cheek and the tips come away slightly stained with blood. He's cut me. I don't believe it—he actually _cut _me.

"I don't know why I did that," he says hoarsely. "For a moment—" He halts and stutters. It's like the words are stuck in his throat. "For a moment, you were the enemy," he says. "I was assessing you."

"Yeah," I say sarcastically, "I got that. Could you maybe try not doing that again?" I grab the knife from the ground and shove it into a drawer. We should probably padlock the knife drawer. Though I'm not actually sure a padlock can stop the Winter Soldier. I turn away to hide my shaking. It's not being threatened with a knife that's scared me—it's _Bucky _threatening me with a knife that's scared me. I know he's attacked me before but the first two times I didn't even know who he was, nor could I see his face. The third and fourth times, it didn't seem malicious. But this…this was terrifying. Because he was literally treating me like I wasn't a human. Just for that moment.

If this is what being the Winter Soldier was like—viewing people as not-humans, simple playthings to cross off a list at his handlers' whimsy—then no wonder Bucky's messed up. And it's going to take him a really long time to recover, I'm thinking. Especially if he keeps doing weird things like trying to cut his best friend's face up with a knife. Thank the Lord _Steve _wasn't home to see it (he's gone to buy a mattress). He'd probably explode, torn between his desire to kill Bucky for harming me and his desire to go easy on Bucky.

I can't let this happen again. So it's time to put on a display.

_You asked for this. _

I whirl around and slam my hands together, bringing them together in a clenching, twisting, throttling motion. I narrow my eyes and focus my anger and shock and fear, channel it towards Bucky—who's been standing staring off into space this whole time—and let my power explode out from me, focusing on his throat. He staggers backwards, hands flying to his throat and wildly scrabbling to pull hands, a weapon, a rope, _anything _off—but there's nothing there. It's all my power, squeezing his throat closed and strangling him. His eyes are wide and white and panicked and he staggers and slips, sinking into a half-kneeling post. His hands claw wildly at his throat, leaving bloody scratches, and strangled noises and gurgles erupt from his closed throat. His face is slowly turning pink and then red and now purple and I watch with cold satisfaction. He may be ten million times physically stronger than me—but in this sense, I am more powerful than him. And it feeds my ego and arrogance, to know that I can kill him in a way that he can't fight.

_THAT'S ENOUGH, VICTORIA! _The goody-two-shoes part of my mind screams suddenly. _You don't want to KILL him! _

I suddenly let my hands drop and my power melts away as if it's all been suctioned away. Bucky's hands drop from his throat and he drops to all fours, gasping and sucking in huge, deep breaths. His eyes are watering and his face is pink. He stands up slowly, massaging his throat, and leans against the counter for support as if his legs feel weak. Slowly his pink face returns to its normal sickly pale color, though his breathing is still very deep.

"What. The. HELL?" he snarls at me, eyes looking wild.

"Payback!" I snap, narrowing my eyes at him and holding my hands up. "Come at me and you'll get another dose."

He freezes mid-lunge and stares at me. He's clearly calculating if he can get to me and bash my head in before I can squeeze my hands together. He lips his dry lips once, looking enraged, but he steps back. Clearly he's unsure of his speed against mine. Smart man. "Seriously, what the _hell_?" he demands, gingerly touching his throat and wincing.

"One," I say, ticking off on my fingers, "this is payback for all the injuries you've given me. Fair is fair. You've injured me, it was my turn to injure you. Do you deny it?"

Bucky is silent.

"Two," I say, smacking my finger, "what you just did? Threatening me with a knife? Seriously, that's not okay. I'm going to do my best to help you and I know you have issues you can't control—but you need to control the Winter Soldier side that wants to look at people like targets and kill them. I strangled you to remind that that I'm _not _a victim, Bucky. You threaten me with a knife? You cut me? I cut you _back_. I threaten you _back_. Understand?"

Bucky takes a deep shuddering breath and stares at me. It's not exactly a friendly stare—but dare I detect a glimmer of respect? By Jove, I think I do! "Fine," he says grudgingly. "I…can accept that."

Good. We're making progress. We've agreed that we have the right to kill each other back. Definitely progress.

The front door slams open and Steve lugs a mattress inside. It's not the huge types that go on king-sized beds but it's not some foamy air mattress either—it's a proper, heavy mattress. Not much of a struggle for Steve but its awkward shape and drag is giving him issues, I can see. Bucky should really be the one helping but he stands there and watches as I hurry to help Steve shove it into the apartment and lean it against the wall. I kick the door shut and survey it. "How did you get this home?" I ask. I'm not even sure if I want to know. If Steve says he _dragged _it home, I'll be really embarrassed for him.

"Got a lift from a friend in their pickup truck," he says.

"You have friends?" I ask in surprise.

He shoots me a _Thanks so much _look.

I blush. Stupid me, shooting off my mouth. "That's not what I meant," I say. "I just meant…you don't seem very social. Who do you know that owns a pickup truck in _D.C._?"

"Guy named J.D. Culvers," Steve says. "He owns a comic book shop a few block away. I stopped in once, looking for some La—" He pauses. "Anyway…he recognized me. But, oddly enough, he didn't freak out. He actually told me it was cool to meet me and then he left me to browse. So I struck up a conversation with him and we've been friends since. Acquaintances, maybe, since I've never actually met him anywhere other than his store…"

That's a nice story but I'm focusing on Steve's slip. He was looking for some "La—." I'm not sure what he was about to say but it sounded suspiciously like "Lady Liberty"…except Steve never read Lady Liberty comics. _I_ did. She was my hero, when I was younger. There was no one I wanted to be more. She always saved the day, got the man, and sometimes left the man behind to pine after her. I wanted to have that kind of power. To leave toppled evil regimes and men crying in my wake.

Was Steve looking for a Lady Liberty comic because it reminded him of _me_?

Once again, it hits me, how strange it is that Steve and I spent at least three years residing in the same city without ever realizing the other was alive. More understandable on Steve's part, seeing as how I was a gutter rat in the shadows with no name except Fizzy. More of stubborn idiocy on my part. If I'd just opened my eyes and looked up Captain America even _once_, I might have realized it really was Steve, come back to life.

But then I still wouldn't have had any way to find him. And that might have been more unbearable: knowing he was out there and not knowing how to get to him.

Steve tells me to move the coffee table and I use my real strength and my powers combined to push, float, and drag it out of the way. It's actually a surprisingly heavy piece, very solid wood and thick glass, but it's more the fact that my emotions aren't high right now so my powers feel low. The more power I need to use, the better it is that I'm wildly angry or upset or frightened. Or happy, I guess, though being wildly happy isn't something that's happened to me much over the past four years.

Steve lays the mattress down in the middle of the floor, right where the coffee table was. I'm still sleeping on the couch because I'm smaller than both of these monsters but Bucky and Steve will have to work out who gets Steve's room—the sick man or the man who actually _owns _the room?—and who gets to stay on the mattress. I admit, I hope Bucky stays in Steve's room. I'm not sure if I'd be able to fall asleep with him laying on a mattress on the ground right next to me. Steve's presence is much calmer and more comforting. Bucky just puts me on edge, though I'm not sure if it's because I still like him or if it's because I'm afraid he'll murder me.

I walk into the kitchen and look at my bowl of half-mashed potatoes. Suddenly I'm not in the mood to keep mashing them. I whirl around clap my hands together. "Let's go out to eat."

Both Steve and Bucky eyeball me. I don't even bother trying to decipher Bucky's expression; it's always a mix of confusion, irritation, caution, and blankness. But Steve simply looks a little cautious.

"I don't think that's a good idea," says Steve. "We just got—I mean Bucky just got back."

"So?" I ask. "He's been here for two days and he hasn't…" _Tried to kill anyone yet. Um…well…not quite… _I clear my throat and look at Bucky, planting my hands on my hips. "I'm hungry. I want real food. Can you go out in public without killing someone?"

"Yes," Bucky growls, clenching his metal fist. Not super convincing, that.

"That's not even what I was thinking about," interrupts Steve. "I meant, we _just _escaped HYDRA. We can't take Buck out in public right away; they could find us."

"Steve, if HYDRA's out there, HYDRA's also going to be out there in a year," I say in exasperation. Honestly. "I managed to hide from them for four years, remember? I think we can go out to some small diner and eat. We can't hide Bucky for forever. The sooner he adapts to the normal world, the better."

"But what if someone spots him?" Steve asks in frustration. His blue eyes have darkened. "What if there's people on the lookout? I don't just mean HYDRA—I mean normal civilians."

"Then," I say, "let's use that handy-dandy thing they call the Internet and check."

Steve brings out his laptop and powers it on. I've only used a computer once before in my life, when I stopped by a library to try and look something up, but I could barely understand how to do anything and I left because other peaceful library goers were giving the trashy homeless-looking kid dirty looks. I still don't really know how to use a laptop so I let Steve do the clicking and tapping. "Just Google to see if people are reporting about a metal-armed assassin man on the run," I say.

Okay, don't even ask how I know about Google. I may not know how to use a computer but I'm not a savage. Everyone knows about Google.

Steve begins typing into the search bar and I watch him closely for future reference. Doesn't seem so hard. I just need time to practice using it. He searches through a few keyword searches and clicks on several different news articles and blog pages, scanning quickly, closing them out, and opening new ones. He hasn't said a word but Bucky's drifted over and is curiously hovering over us too, bending over my shoulder slightly. The ends of his hair brush the top of my head and I can smell him: he smells like Steve's Ivory soap and smoke. It's been over a week since the helicarrier fight but the smell of rank smoke still clings to Bucky like a cologne. A gross, murder-y cologne.

The perfect addition to my future grunge-combat clothing line, obviously.

After ten minutes, Steve closes out the Internet page and snaps the top of the laptop down. "Doesn't seem like anyone's searching for Bucky," he says and he sounds a bit surprised. I guess it is surprising, in this world where _everyone _has a video phone, that no one got any video or photos of the Winter Soldier. "They are saying some armed and dangerous men may have escaped—but all they say is to report suspicious characters. That could be anyone. No one's specifically mentioned looking for a metal-armed assassin or the Winter Soldier. If anyone _did _see him, they haven't spoken up yet. Either that or no one believes them."

It's a god-given miracle—but it seems Bucky's escaped the public eye. Kind of crazy when you think about the fact that he totally caused major accidents _twice _on busy roads and highways. In front of the entire world.

"Excellent!" I say brightly. "So we can go!" I throw back my chair, stand up, and whirl around to smack straight into Bucky's chest and lose my balance. I'm about to fall backwards onto my butt but his hands shoot out and grab the tops of my arms, steadying me. "Thanks," I say without thinking—and then we both freeze awkwardly as we realize he's still holding onto me. He quickly lets go and self-consciously runs a hand (a human hand) through his messy, long dark hair, scowling slightly.

Steve's watched this exchange with a slightly amused expression and he stands up, smiling. He seems to be in good spirits now that he knows there isn't a national search for the Winter Soldier going on. "Alright, why the hell not?" he says. "Let's go out to eat. Two guys and one gal."

"Just like old times." The quiet words slip out of Bucky's mouth and we both stare at him. Even _he _looks surprised, like he can't believe what his mouth just said.

"Bucky, did you just say something normal and not sulky?" I demand.

He scowls.

"Ah, you're back to normal."

Steve suddenly bursts out laughing. "Victoria…watching you with him is like watching Sam with you. You and Buck…you're literally the same people now."

"Excuse you," I say, not sure whether to be offended (hello, I'm not a brainwashed assassin) or flattered (the Winter Soldier's a badass, so does that mean I'm a badass too?). "I smile a little more than he does."

"That's true," Steve chuckles. "But only a little more."

I roll my eyes and shove Steve lightly. "Go get ready to eat in public," I say. "No grandpa outfits. This isn't senior citizens' night out." I smile privately at my twisted joke. Heh. I'm so funny. "And give this guy some clothes too," I say. "Preferably _not _black. I'm tired of seeing him dressed like a ninja." He's been wearing all black clothes ever since he got here but that's got to stop. Dressing like that is _sure _to get him noticed.

As for me…well, now is my time to finally do what I've yearned to do for a long time.

I'm going to wear a dress.

* * *

I think I need to start by saying I haven't worn a dress in decades. I haven't done a _lot _of things in decades but wearing a dress is kind of important since I basically spent my whole life in dresses back in the day. It's only been the four years since I got to the twenty-first century that I've worn pants and shirts—and disgusting, ragged, unstylish ones at that. So I guess what I'm trying to say is…I've gotten used to looking like garbage.

But I want to look nice for once.

I know we're just going out to eat. We're not going to a wedding or a fancy party. I'm not trying to look like a princess. Just _nice_, you know? Pretty. For once. Wearing a dress requires shaving and all that fun hygienic stuff, but I've already done that so I put on the only dress I got when I went shopping with Steve. By modern-day standards it's pretty modest and by 1930s standards, it's kind of promiscuous. It has wide tank top straps and a cinched waist with a skirt that flares out and reaches the tops of my knees. It's shorter than anything I've ever worn before. It's cream-colored with tiny blue and green Liberty floral print on it. I still feel kind of naked and uncovered so I pull on a black cardigan I've also gotten. I don't have any nice shoes so I have no choice but to tie my ragged black Converse back on, which gives me a strange sort of look, but oh well. I brush my hair and push it back with a thin black headband that I found for a dollar next to a cashier at some store.

I look at myself in the mirror and smile. My face is still pale but my cheeks look fuller now that I've had normal meals to eat for a few days. A spray of freckles across my nose, stormy blue-gray eyes, golden-auburn straight hair skimming my shoulders (chopped at uneven lengths), and lips that always look like I've been eating cherry Popsicles. I pout at myself and then wink. Could I be pretty? I smooth down my hair and lean closer to the mirror, examining myself from all angles. If you…sort of close your eyes and squint, I could be pretty. I think.

This is stupid and shallow. I stop making faces and leave the bathroom. Bucky is wearing a new set of clothes and they're not black. They're black and dark navy blue and green so dark is basically looks black. I think Steve completely missed my point. And Steve's changed into yet another outfit that looks like it belongs on a clean-cut dandy. I've been trying to convince him that he'd seem cooler in all black with a leather jacket but he's refused. They're both awkwardly leaning against separate walls, taking turns staring at the ceiling and floor and shiftily glancing at one another. I watch them with my arms crossed, amused, for a moment and then I loudly say, "You two have got to stop doing this. You're best friends," and they both jump at my arrival.

Bucky's eyes widen ever so slightly at my new appearance but he doesn't say anything. Steve, however, is more flattering. He smiles and knocks me lightly on the arm. "Victoria! You clean up nicely. I didn't realize I was taking a lady out tonight, I'll have to be on my best behavior."

"When are you not, Captain?" I ask but I'm secretly pleased. Steve thinks I look nice. Maybe I do look nice. "Where are we going? I don't know anything near here."

"I do," Steve says. "A café a few blocks over, it's owned by a man named Ruben. Good man. We've become friendly."

We head outside and I have no idea how we're going to get there considering Steve only has one motorcycle and even though Natasha, Steve, and I managed to squish onto there, Bucky is considerably larger than Natasha. But then Steve unlocks a random Toyota and gets in so I shrug and slide into the shotgun seat. Bucky hesitates for a moment and then gets into the back, looking like he feels very awkward doing mundane things like getting in cars and not ripping the steering wheels out.

Yeah, I'm never going to forget that one.

"Um, Steve, whose car is this?" I demand.

"Funny thing," Steve says, "but the keys showed up at the apartment this morning with a note written in red lipstick and I found the car parked outside. I get the feeling Sam may have somehow told Natasha that we found Bucky and Natasha being her good old Natasha self realized we would need a car—"

"—and decided to give us one in the most mysterious way possible," I finish, nodding. "Yup, sounds like the Black Widow alright."

"Where's Sam now?" I ask as Steve heads to the café. "Haven't seen him in a bit."

"Oh, you know," Steve says, turning a corner. "Working and stuff. He still has a job, family, friends…"

"We have all that too," I say. I pause and shrug. "Okay, so it's _weird_, I'll grant you that. But our jobs are kicking bad guys' butts. And our family and friends…are each other." I lean around my seat and crane my neck to look at Bucky, who's been silent this whole time. "That includes you, Mr. Master Assassin. Come on." I lean over and pat his knee. "You can smile. We're not going to wipe your memories or hurt you like HYDRA. You remember us, right? So you should also remember how to smile."

Bucky stares at me for a moment like I'm a gooey green alien who's descending to Earth right in front of him to dance the hula—but then the corners of his mouth turn up slightly and he lets out a sigh. I wait but that's all he's giving us right now, apparently. Okay, it's still progress. I turn back around just as Steve pulls into the café. It's a cute little thing, with fake cobblestone around it, made to look like a European thing with flower baskets and twinkling fairy lights strung across the entrance. Couples and groups of friends sit chatting, laughing, and eating at the metal chairs and tables at the outside section. I hope no one gives us any trouble.

I hope Bucky doesn't _start _any trouble.

He winces slightly, rubbing his metal arm as he gets out of the car, and I hear a faint clicking and creaking noise. "What's wrong?" I ask him.

"My arm," he mumbles. "It's"—he winces again—"short-circuiting or something."

"How badly does it hurt?" I ask.

"Six," he replies dully.

Wait…what? I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. "Six"? What relevance does that have to do with my question? "Six?" I repeat in confusion. Steve's listening as well.

"About a six," Bucky mumbles, looking down at his arm distractedly.

Suddenly it hits me—he's speaking on a scale. I remember because I've done it too. The HYDRA scientists and researchers do something to you and then they ask, "On a scale from one to ten…" and you have to choose a number. I've only done it a few times but it seems like Bucky's done it more because he still hasn't even realized that this isn't the normal human answer to my question. I look over at Steve and he has a pained expression on his face. It looks like pity—pity that Bucky's still acting like a robot.

I put my hand on Bucky's metal arm and say in a low voice, "Bucky. I'm not asking on a scale. This isn't"—I lower my voice to a whisper—"HYDRA. I'm asking how badly does it hurt, and you're allowed to _describe _it. 'It hurts a lot' or 'Not so much' or 'Holy crap, it feels like a shark is eating my arm'." I step back and anxiously observe him. He looks a little surprised at this new revelation, that he's allowed to feel things and describe them. He's allowed to be more than just a robot who answers on a scale.

"Medium," he responds, which isn't exactly as emotive as I'd hoped for…but it's better than _six_.

"Okay, in that case, we'll deal with it after we eat," I say. "Because seriously, I'm hungry."

I can see some people inside the café giving us strange looks as we sit down in a corner booth (I'm next to Steve, Bucky is alone). I can see why. Seeing two guys and one girl out isn't something people usually see. Normally it's a couple or a whole group of guys and girls or two guys and two girls on a group date. I can see people eyeing us, trying to figure out if we're cousins or siblings or something. We look absolutely nothing alike—one redhead (well…sort of redheaded), one brunet, one blond.

"This reminds me of something," Steve says suddenly. "The last time we were at Jackie's before Bucky left for the war."

I look at Steve in surprise. Jackie's was the diner we always hung out at. Steve and I still haven't really discussed the past but I remember the day well. I grin wickedly at Steve. "You were grumbling about some girl checking Bucky out." We both look at Bucky, who seems a bit startled. "Girls loved you," I explain. "You may remember that."

"Sort of," he mumbles. A pink flush has crept up his neck. Ha ha, he's self-conscious. That's so cute. "Including you?" he suddenly asks.

Okay, now he's not so cute. Why did he have to bring that up? Now _I'm _feeling flushed. "No," I say in a hurry.

"But I thought you said you were—"

"Anyway," I say hastily, avoiding Steve's curious gaze, clearly wonder what the heck Bucky and I are discussing, "then you two jerks ditched me to go play pool. Do you remember _that_, Steve?"

Steve rolls his eyes but smiles then, breaking out into a small laugh. "How many times do I have to apologize for that? We were dumb kids!"

"You're still a dumb kid."

"Ah, just like old times," Steve says, smiling. He seems content, if a bit weary. He glances around and notices some people staring—at him, mostly—and he ducks down low, resting his chin on top of his folded arms on the table. He's probably hoping no one's noticed he's Captain America yet.

The waitress comes and takes out orders. I just order mashed potatoes. My craving won't go away. Steve orders two burgers and two fries and I think he's ordered for both himself and Bucky—but _then _he orders _more _food for Bucky. Of course. Both of my best friends eat enough to terrify an Olympic gold medalist swimmer. They've even surpassed me, and I have the biggest appetite out of anyone I know.

I wonder how long it'll be before the world figures out who Bucky and I are. We're going to be seen with Steve a lot, and people already recognize _him_. It's only going to take one person to think, _Hmmm, that girl and that guy with Steve Rogers sure look like that Victoria Marsden and Bucky Barnes from the photos I've seen—holy hell, it IS Victoria and Bucky! _and then the whole world will want to know our stories. I don't think I'll ever be ready to tell my story to the world, so this could get a little awkward.

"The Holy Roller," Bucky says suddenly, making both Steve and I jump. Bucky used to never shut up but now he's like a ghost—always stalking you but always silent. So when he _does _speak, it's odd. It also doesn't help that he tends to say very random things when he speaks.

"The what?" I ask. "Is that a rock band or something?"

"That's the bar we went to," he says thoughtfully, rubbing his stubbly chin. "When we left you."

"Holy crap," I say just as Steve whispers, "Bucky, do you remember?"

"Yeah," he says, looking as surprised as the two of us. Then he frowns, his mouth flattening into a thin white line. "Not…everything, though. Why did we leave her?"

"My name is Victoria," I say. "You can call me that, you know. I'm _right here_."

Bucky exhales through his nose like an angry and exasperated mother and says tightly, "Fine. Why did we leave…_Victoria_?"

"Because the Holy Roller was no place for a lady," Steve says. Bucky stares at him and I'm not sure if it's because he's shocked at the idea of me being a _lady _(a lady does not throttle her best friend with her magic powers!) or if he simply doesn't understand the concept of chivalry and casual sexism against women in general. Maybe after his years of mindlessly slaying men and women, there's no real difference between them in his mind. I can tell Steve is wondering the same thing because he coughs and delicately says, "There were, ah, things there that a young lady shouldn't have seen—"

"Prostitutes," I say bluntly.

"Yeah," Steve says, defeated. "Them."

The waitress brings our food and we start eating but Bucky remembering the Holy Roller has made me lose my appetite (incredible, I know). I push my plate away and ask Bucky, "What's it like? Remembering and…_not _remembering?"

Bucky, for his part, was staring at his plate like he wasn't sure what to do with it—it's quite possible that HYDRA didn't feed him things like this; they never fed _me _things like this—but he looks up at me now, seeming almost relieved to ignore his food. "It's…" His voice trails off and he seems to be thinking. "I remember names, faces, events…but some things are blurry. And confusing. And I'm constantly—I'm constantly fighting the urge to follow through on my orders and kill St-Steve"—he stumbles on his name—"and kidnap you. To get away from you two. You two were my missions."

"I get it," I say abruptly. "You feel twitchy, right? Like you don't know how to"—I point to his fork—"pick up a fork and use it. Like you don't know how to smile on time or reply convincingly. You feel like you don't know people because you're not one of them anymore. You're different. You have blurry memories and things you don't want to—or can't—think about and all you need to do is shut down and survive."

Steve and Bucky are both transfixed by my words, though for different reasons. I feel self-conscious but I go on, taking a noisy sip of Steve's soda (see? I've caught on to this century's slang). I think Bucky needs to hear this, to know he's not alone even though we're not exactly in the same boat. "My mission was to survive," I say. "I knew what I was doing but I did it anyway. Nothing made sense—this world, technology, people—but I did it anyway. I stole, I lied, I hurt people…and I killed." A shiver runs down my spine like tap dancing spiders. Another shiver runs down my spine at the thought of tap dancing spiders. "I bashed in a boy's skull just because I wanted to survive and have a reputation."

I can't look Steve in the eyes. He's never heard about this and I don't want to see the disappointment that's sure to be lurking in his eyes. I bet he never realized how brutal his precious innocent Victoria really got. "I wasn't brainwashed or memory wiped," I continue, "but I shut down my emotions. I stopped feeling. I killed. I thought I was a—some type of cold god. Above people. I craved power. I still do," I admit, rubbing the back of my neck and feeling the power in my hands, always ready to explode.

I look Bucky in the eyes. "You don't feel comfortable, right? You have pictures and fuzzy memories of what Bucky Barnes was like and you feel like you have one hand on him, like you can almost feel who he was. Who _you _were. But you have new memories and emotions and skills now and every urge is making you want to shut down and kill everyone on sight because it's too confusing and painful to try and be your old self. I know because I've been through that. Still going through it, in fact." I scowl down at my plate of untouched mashed potatoes. I may be more to terms with Victoria Marsden than Bucky is with his old self—but Fizzy is still me and still a huge part of me and that side of me…the cold, criminal side…that's not going away. Fizzy ripped the rug right out from under the old Victoria Marsden's feet and there's no going back.

"There's no going back," I say, mirroring my thoughts, "but you don't have to. Stop trying to _be _the old exact Bucky Barnes. Be your new self, even if your new self feels angrier and likes to talk less. Just try to cut the violence out of it." I finish abruptly. That's the end of it. I don't have some stunning ending; I'm not some natural motivational speech giver, like Steve is (I still remember his speech at the Triskelion). Both Steve and Bucky keep staring at me and I say, "Okay, I'm done. You can look away now." I'm already regretting opening up. What was the point? I'm only going to make Steve worry about my sanity and Bucky—

"Exactly," Bucky says in a low voice, his eyes a little wider than normal. "You—"

But we never find out what _I _because right then a gaggle of kids, all around age ten, boys and girls, pop up around our table from seemingly out of nowhere (children are such little weasels) and start babbling all at once in excitable voices.

"Whoa! I can't believe it's—"

"—Captain _America_!"

"So cool, can I get your—"

"—aliens in New York and—"

"Do you really know Iron Man?"

"—Captain _America_!"

"—said that you weren't even real and I told him he was such a dumbo cause _duh_, you're real—"

"—do you have freezer burn?"

"—what's Thor like?"

"—your picture?!"

And suddenly they all shut up and they cheese brilliantly at Steve, shoving iPhones (honestly, why does a ten year old need a cell phone? This generation is ridiculous; I wasn't even allowed to wear _lipstick _till I was sixteen) in his face and grinning wickedly all around their elfin little-kid faces. The girls are just as excited as the boys. They remind me of _myself_, reading comics about superheroes and playing baseball even though the other girls made fun of me for it. It's a real shame what people do to young girls these days, making them feel bad about liking "boy stuff." Half of these girls will probably grow up to be ashamed they ever liked a superhero.

None of the kids have noticed us but I can see Bucky looks as twitchy as an electrocuted cat. He looks like he's going to start yowling and spitting and hissing any second now but the way his fingers are jerkily playing with his fork and eyes are darting around madly. He's sweating too. I can understand; a pack of kids is like a pack of roaming beasts. You never know when they're going to attack. Don't any of these kids have parents?

I stealthily slide onto Bucky's bench while Steve patiently takes photos with every single kid—what a nice guy—and I can feel Bucky trembling next to me. I glance at him; he doesn't look scared, more like…anxious and uncomfortable. Clearly so much chattering and squealing and human behavior has made him feel trapped. "At ease, soldier," I whisper. I'm trying to be funny but he stiffens immediately, a masklike expression of eerie calm covering his face. I think he's taken my words as a command. He seems relieved to follow. HYDRA probably never gave him anything _but _commands—it's easy for him to follow direct orders.

I'm hoping the pack of kids will wander away to their next target once they're done with good ol' Cap but oh horror of horrors, they turn to _us_. I think they're going to bypass us but all it takes is _one _stupid little kid to say, "Saaaaaaay, don't you two look like Bucky and Victoria, Cap's old best friends?" and then suddenly everyone's eyes are widening to dinner plate proportions and mouths are dropping and I can just _feel _the hysteria rising within their tiny, beastly souls—

So I panic. I stand up and sneakily shield Bucky from view with my body and growl, "Alright, you get five seconds to take a picture. If any of you are here after that, I'll send you guys flying into the closest garbage cans." And then I focus, use my powers to hover a fork and drop it just as quickly to show them what I can do. Cue gasps from every single child. I can tell all their wildest dreams have come true. Magic is _real_! Too bad none of their parents will ever believe them. I hold up a peace sign, grin widely, and say, "Okay, GO!"

They all snap as many photos of me as they can and I try to hide Bucky as best as I can—I'm practically sitting _on _his head at this point, leaning as far back as I can (hang on, has he _slid _to the floor of the table? OUCH, did he just bite my _leg_?! Oh no, he just scratched it by accident)—and then five seconds are up and I'm shooing the kids, saying, "Scram! Get out of here, rodents!"

"Victoria!" Steve admonishes. "Rodents?"

"Steve, if they got a photo of Bucky, it'd be online and go viral," I say, "and then they'd know where to find him."

"True," Steve admits, standing up and dropping money onto the table, "but they got pictures of _you_."

"Pierce is dead," I say grimly, sliding out. "I can handle what HYDRA throws at me next. Him…" I nod to the table, under which Bucky is crouching. "Not so much. Bucky, you can come out now."

He crawls out, looking like an extremely undignified and angry cat, and storms out of the diner, slamming the doors on the way out much to the dismay of the Italian owner who dashes over to check that his precious doors haven't cracked or shattered.

"Well," I say cheerfully, "that went well."


	18. Chapter 18

After the fiasco at the café, Steve and I don't attempt to take Bucky out in public again. He's going to have to go eventually—but he needs more time. That much is really obvious. So we stay in for the next week. I'm getting hay fever. Or wait…is it spring fever? Cabin fever? Whatever, I'm getting that not-actually-a-medical-fever fever that you get when you're stuck indoors babysitting a grouchy ex-assassin and aren't able to leave the house and you're starting to get kind of antsy and annoyed. At least when I was on the streets I had the freedom to go wherever I wanted to go.

Steve's not complaining, of course, because _Steve _gets to leave the apartment. He's gone almost every day for a few hours. I have no idea what he's doing; he doesn't have a job and SHIELD is basically done for. Whenever I ask, he says, "I can't explain it _yet _because it's not finalized. But I'm planning something, working the kinks out." Whatever that means. Honestly, I think he escapes from the apartment so he doesn't have to deal with Bucky. He loves him, don't get me wrong, but Bucky's homecoming isn't exactly the picture-perfect homecoming you'd see in some cutesy-indie film, where the former amnesiac obediently looks at photos of the past and drinks chicken soup and wears fuzzy blankets and smiles and slow-dances with his wife that he can't remember and is really accommodating and eventually gets all of his memories back while gaining some great new ones.

Yes, in case it wasn't obvious, I've been watching a _lot _of movies this past week. I have decades to catch up on, after all.

I'm drawn to movies about people with memory loss. Obviously because of Bucky…but I also think I'm somehow searching for a solution to this problem. But I somehow don't think any of the solutions in the movies will work on Bucky. True love's kiss? Um…no. (Even if I thought it'd work and somehow I was Bucky's true love, I have the feeling that he'd punch me in the face if I got too close to him.) Hitting them on the head really hard? Yeah, he'd probably rip me in half if I tried to attack him. One method they use a lot in movies is taking the amnesiac to their old stomping grounds: their home, their favorite diner, places where they made memories with loved ones. That doesn't seem like such a bad idea actually…except we're not in Brooklyn, New York.

It gives me an idea, however. And when I get ideas, they usually turn into plans. Stupid, careless, not very-well-thought-out plans—but plans nonetheless. And I need to make some sort of plan because I'm going stir crazy stuck in this apartment with no company except the Winter Grinch here. (_Loved _that movie, by the way!) So I start doing some research, slowly typing and pressing buttons like some sort of confused geriatric person on Steve's laptop whenever I manage to borrow it (which is whenever I want; Steve would give me his eyes, probably, if I asked for them. I'm starting to feel a wee bit spoiled).

* * *

Two nights later, Steve leaves to go get takeout for dinner ("I'm _almost _done planning," he says earlier. "Don't worry, we'll get moving soon." I still have no idea what he's talking about) and I'm about to sit down and watch yet another movie (I've picked out _Legally Blonde _today. Sometimes I wonder why Steve has these types of movies but I'm almost afraid to ask) but I pause when looking down at the case and think about Bucky. He's holed up in Steve's room like he is most of the time but perhaps he'd like to watch with me.

I mean, I don't really know why a dead-inside ex-assassin would ever want to watch a movie about what seems like a wannabe-lawyer who wears an alarming amount of pink. But maybe that's just what his empty life needs now: some bright pink hope.

I knock on Steve's door. No one responds. Is he asleep? Dead? I slowly push the door open…only to see Bucky lounging on Steve's bed, arms crossed behind his head, staring at the wall opposite the bed with a dead expression on his face. Okay, so not dead or asleep—just ignoring me. I can deal with that. It's rude and I kind of want to teach him some manners but yeah, I can deal with that. I cautiously approach him and stand next to the bed and wait for him to notice me. He doesn't notice me; he keeps staring at the wall with an empty, emotionless face. What is he thinking about? Is he thinking about _anything_? How can someone look so empty and dead while being so physically alive?

I clear my throat. "Hello," I say. I wait and it looks like he's going to keep ignoring me—but then he slowly turns his head slightly and looks at me. He doesn't say anything, just stares at me. I take it as a signal to keep going. "So," I say, trying to sound upbeat and cheerful. "You look really bored and depressed."

Wait. No. That doesn't sound very upbeat or cheerful at _all_.

"Hang on, that came out wrong," I say, frowning at myself. "What I _meant _was…you look really bored…but I can fix that! Ta da!" I whip the DVD out from behind my back and kind of obnoxiously wave it in his face. "Want to watch a movie with me? The perfect cure for boredom. A great invention of the twenty-first century, movies. Haha, yes, DVDs."

I'm babbling stupidly because I'm nervous and because he's looking at me but not saying anything and oh God. Please say yes. Please say yes. Do not reject me because if I get rejected by the world's most socially-inept person, I'll be humiliated beyond b—

"Not really," he says.

Aaaaaaaaand _there _goes my ego, burning up in flames. Ego? What ego? I have no ego, no pride. I am lower than the lowest slug. I've been rejected by the one person in the world who quite literally needs friends more than anyone on the planet. How much lamer can I get?

I open my mouth to speak for a moment—and then pause, slightly confused (and highly embarrassed). I don't actually know what to say now. I expected him to say _yes_. Why hasn't he said yes? Why doesn't he want to spend time with us? Doesn't he want to get his memories back? You'd think someone who didn't have all of his own memories would be doing everything he could to get his memories back. You'd think he'd at least want to _try_. You'd think—

"But I'll read." He cuts off my internal babbling and I blink, confused for a moment, not understanding what he's said. Then it hits me: he won't watch a movie with me…but he will read. Great! It's not as sociable as watching a movie together but whatever, I'll take anything at this point. Anything but him staring like a dead man at the wall for hours on end.

"Okay," I say brightly. "Uh…follow me." I awkwardly edge out of the room and head to the family room, settling down on the sofa and rifling through a stack of books on one of the end tables next to the sofa. He doesn't appear for a moment and I'm afraid that he's decided to ditch me and not come—but then he appears, as silent as a shadow, loping down the hallway looking eternally bored and unimpressed. He's wearing all black sweats and his hair is tied back with a pony tail. It's still strange to see Bucky look so slouchy and ragged. He used to look very smooth. It was why the girls were wild for him.

He sits down on the other sofa and begins aimlessly rifling through a stack of magazines next to him. Good. He's doing normal human things, like reading, and he's sitting like five feet away from a human. This is all very good progress. I look down at the two books I've been clutching so hard their covers have gotten bent (oooh, I hope Steve doesn't get too mad; some book lovers are quite daft about the conditions of their books, right?). _The Jungle _by Upton Sinclair and_ The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo _by Stieg Larsson. I read the summaries of both. _The Jungle _seems fascinating…but also highly depressing. It's based on real life history. I _am _real life history. I don't want to read about _more _real life history, more real life troubles of real life people who lived in the real life past. I want to lose myself in fantasy, fiction, worlds where people don't have to deal with actual problems. _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo _seems interesting—all sinister and murderously thrilling. I'm sold.

We've been reading for about ten minutes when I decided to take a peek at what Bucky's reading. I do so and immediately regret my decision. He's reading a magazine…about weapons. That's right: a magazine about guns and knives and weapons. Lord knows why Steve has this magazine, considering that he hates killing and hurting people so much, but I've decided to simply never question any of the media Steve has in his home because it is beyond diverse. But really? A weapons magazine? For someone who used to kill for a…well, not a _living _because I doubt HYDRA paid him but…a _life_?

"Yeah, how about no," I say a bit snappily, getting up and yanking the magazine from Bucky's slack grip (rude, I know, but c'mon). "Maybe you should focus on something _not _related to killing and blood and hurting people, Buck. You should take your mind off the past. Here"—I grab a magazine at random from his side table and stuff it into his hands—"read this."

He looks down at it and tonelessly says, "_Ladies' Home Journal._"

_Ladies' Home_—okay, hang on, seriously, _why _does Steve have this magazine? I know I just said I wouldn't ask about the diversity of his media but really, this is getting a bit ridiculous. Is he buying these himself or is there some strange friend giving him these things?

"_Set a pretty table for spring_," Bucky reads colorlessly from the cover. "_Anti-aging makeup tricks. Having a baby in your 40's_." He looks up at me and humorlessly says, "Yeah. I can really tell I'll need this magazine. Looks like a wild ride."

Wait, is he being sarcastic? I look at him closely and see a ghost of a smile on his face, very faint, almost as if it isn't there at all—but it is, ever so slightly. Maybe not so humorless after all! And that's when I grin widely because I know all hope isn't lost. He may be angry and confused, and he may act like a robot most of the time, but all hope is not lost because he's just cracked a sarcastic joke and kind of smiled and you know what that means? That means he's still human and he's still trying to forge some type of human connection. With _me_.

"Well," I say, "if there's anyone who doesn't need anti-aging tips, it's you." I grin even more widely and he looks startled at my bold joke for a moment—and then the corners of his mouth turn up even more. Aha! Even more of a smile. I pause for a moment, suddenly uneasy at his rapid change in demeanor, and ask, "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Switch," I say, flip flopping my hands aimlessly. "From…from guy who's zombie on the inside to…to guy who smiles and makes jokes. How can you just— You just sometime seem so…so like…like we'll never be able to pull you back from the edge. Like you're gone for forever. But then you'll suddenly smile and you seem like a totally different person…?" My voice trails off. "I'm confused."

"If that's how you feel," he says, "how do you think _I_ feel? You described it at the—the café. I feel like I have one hand on my…my old self and one hand on the Winter Soldier but I also feel different from _both _of them. So it's…"

"Confusing," I finish somewhat pointlessly. We've all gotten the point by now: this is all very confusing for all parties involved.

"Have you ever recovered from having your memories stolen?" he asks suddenly. I'm not sure if he's trying to make a point—_Hey, you can never understand what I went through, so maybe shut up!_—or genuinely curious.

"No," I admit. "That's the one thing HYDRA didn't do to me."

"So you felt all of it," he says. "You remembered everything. You know you were locked up. You knew bad things were being done to you."

"Well…when you put it _that _way…" I say awkwardly. "It sounds more horrible than—than I make it s—"

"I sometimes wonder," he murmurs, cutting me off (unbelievable; he's not even listening to me!), "if what happened to you was worse. I committed more crimes…I had more taken away from me…but you _knew _what was being taken away from you. You _knew _something was being taken away at _all_." He lapses into a moody, contemplative silence. The Winter Philosopher.

He looks like he's going to get all moody again and I cannot let that happen so I hurry over to Steve's entry closet and yank out the stack of sketchbooks from the top shelf. The shelf is very high so I have to stand on my tippy-toes and I knock down a box of puzzle pieces as well, scattering them everywhere (I'll pick them up later). Maybe it's an invasion of privacy, showing Bucky Steve's art without permission, but I'm almost positive that Steve wouldn't care. And even if he does, _I _don't care. I need to distract Bucky and some random TV show or movie or book isn't going to do it.

"Look at these!" I drop the stack with a loud _thud _onto the sofa next to Bucky. "Do you remember how Steve likes art?"

"Sort of," he says, slowly reaching for the top sketchbook. "I remember him…doodling a lot."

"Well, he does more than _doodle_," I say, "but yeah, basically. Take a look. There's drawings of you. Of both of us. Of _all _of us."

Steve used his art to try and forge an emotional connection with me and I'm going to try and do the same with Bucky. I sit on the sofa on the other side of the sketch books and watch Bucky silently, letting him take his time while slowly flipping through the pages. He pauses in surprise when he comes across drawings of himself—clean-cut 1930s Bucky Barnes doing various things—and raises his eyebrows slightly, studying them. "I look happy," he states.

"You were a happy guy," I reply.

He keeps flipping. He stops when he comes across drawings of me as well. I decide not to mention that Steve's drawn more pictures of me than he has of Bucky. It's probably not a good way to tell Bucky that we love him. He studies a drawing of me sitting on a fence, ankles crossed, looking sideways and trying to catch a hat that's blowing away in the wind while my dress and hair also flutter slightly in the breeze—and then he looks up at me. "You look the same—" he starts.

"The perks of being frozen alive."

"—except more happy," he finishes.

I sigh. "I know, I know. I'm angry and bitter now, I was happier and sweeter then, it's nothing I haven't heard before."

"No," Bucky says roughly. "You have it wrong. You look happier _now_."

_Excusez-moi? _Did Bucky just say I look happier now than I did back then? I don't know where he's gotten such a wild idea from and I can only conclude that he's been sniffing crack during all those hours he's spent holed up in Steve's room alone. There's no other explanation.

"Yeah, I don't think so," I say slowly, careful not to rile him up too much. "I don't think I've been very happy these past four—"

"You still don't get it," he says and he looks a bit annoyed now, as if I'm misunderstanding him on purpose.

"Okay, so tell me," I say, throwing my hands up, defeated. "How the heck do I look happier now?"

"I can remember you," he says. "Not all of it, not all of the time, but from what I do remember of you…you were sweet. But quiet. Shy." He frowns almost to himself. "You were lonely. You were unhappy."

I'm frozen. It feels like ice is literally freezing me to the sofa and all I can do is furrow my brows and stare at him, fascinated and confused and somewhat horrified that he's read me so correctly. Is this how he felt back at the café, when I was trying to tell him I knew what he felt like?

"Go on," I say, transfixed. I need to hear what he says next.

"I'm sure you…you were angry when you were homeless," he says slowly, like he's taking great care to pick his words. "Don't get me wrong. You're _dangerous _now. More than before. But you're more…" He rubs his temples. "Alive. Comfortable with yourself. Willing to…be yourself?"

"And that makes you think I'm happy?" I ask.

"Yes," he says.

Well, I _never_. I lean back against the sofa with a sudden _whump_, slightly aghast at the fact that he's managed to figure me out so well. An ex-assassin with literally no people skills and half-remembered memories who's barely spent any time with me recently has managed to somehow figure me out and has also managed to explain _me _in two minutes. Either I'm more transparent than I thought or he's more intuitive than I thought.

And he's right. The scary thing is, _he's right_. Sure, I was sweeter, gentler, more innocent back then…but I was unhappy. Uncomfortable with myself, my looks, my powers. I stifled myself and I missed my mother and my there-yet-not-there father and I screamed into my pillow in my room and didn't have _any _control over my powers. I felt like a wallflower, a third wheel, useless. A freak.

And now…now I may have anger issues and some bitterness (okay, a lot of bitterness) and attitude problems. I'm dangerous But I'm also…more myself. I'm more comfortable with my powers, my looks, my attitude. I'm not 100% comfortable yet, but is anyone really _ever _100% okay with themselves? I feel more important now, like I can make a difference and help people. I'm not totally there but I'm getting there, to the point of well and truly liking myself. And maybe…just maybe…

Maybe that _is _what happiness is.

Well, I guess it's better that Bucky hit the _nail _on the head rather than hit _me _on the head.

His announcement has taken all the wind out of my sails and I still feel a bit flabbergasted by his observations so I sit in silence and watch him slowly go through the sketchbooks, nodding to himself. Ten minutes later the front door opens and Steve walks in, staggering under the weight of a mountain of Chinese takeout. "What are you guys doing?" he calls, setting the bags down onto the counter and walking over. Then he stops in surprise, seeing Bucky staring down at a sketch of Bucky himself lighting a cigar. (He didn't actually smoke back then, so this is out of Steve's imagination.) "Oh—looking at…my drawings."

"I hope you don't mind," I say a bit anxiously. I'm pretty bold but it's suddenly occurred to me—maybe I did cross a line, showing Bucky his art without asking Steve. I didn't care before but…art's a pretty personal thing…so maybe I did wrong. "I just thought he might…like to see it, you know. See if it jogs any more memories."

"No, no, it's fine," says Steve quickly. "I was just going to ask how you managed to reach…" He turns to see puzzle pieces scattered all over the floor in front of the closet. "I see."

"Oh!" I turn a bit pink and hurry forward. "I'll just pick those up…right…" I drop to my hands and knees and begin quickly sweeping up the puzzle pieces as fast as I can. Someone puts their hand on my hand and I look up to see Steve kneeling in front of me, looking a bit serious.

"Wh—"

"Thank you," he mouths.

I sit back on my haunches and mouth, "For what?"

He nods towards the sofa, where we can see the back of Bucky's dark head, bent over the sketchbooks still. He's lost in his own world, complete oblivious to what Steve and I are saying or doing.

"I know you two are talking about me," he suddenly calls flatly.

Okay. Maybe not. His observation skills are off the charts. Rather eerie, if you ask me. What _else _has he noticed that I'm not aware of? Or do I even want to know?

I dump the puzzle pieces inside the puzzle box (it's a picture of a cat wearing a top hat; sometimes Steve can be so weird) and Steve tucks the box back onto the shelf of the closet. I leap over the sofa and land with a bounce onto the seat near Bucky, making some of the sketchbooks fall to the floor, and Steve takes a seat on the sofa near us except he sits down like a civilized human being. Bucky gives me a look and if I'm not mistaken, it almost seems like he's _judging _me for not being ladylike.

The nerve.

"Whoa, wait, hang on!" I reach over and tap a drawing Bucky was just about to flip over. It's a drawing of Steve except he's…only in his boxers, he's dripping wet, and he's holding a cat under his arm. The cat appears to be yowling. Steve has a sheepish grin on his face and he looks like he's blushing. The drawing it's attached to the sketchbook, it's its own sheet. The style of the drawing is a bit different from his normal style—it's a little more cartoony, with bolded outlines. It's still unmistakably Steve, however. "Steve, what is going on here?" I demand. "I'm going to need an explanation."

Steve stares at the photo and then coughs. "Oh…_that_…" He lets out a sheepish chuckle and then says, "Long story. Sort of. But I didn't draw that."

"Then who did?"

"Some street artist," he says.

"Some street artist drew a picture of you in your underwear, holding a cat, and soaking wet," I state baldly, eyeing him for some clarification. "Uh…" I hear a soft snort from Bucky next to me and when I glance at him, he's staring intently down at the sketchbook with so much focus that he'd laser through the page of he had laser beam eyes—but he's listening. I can tell he is.

"Okay, so this happened last year," Steve says. "I was taking a shower and my, um, my bathroom door was wide open." He turns a bit pink and I wave his embarrassment away. I don't care about that part. He lived alone, of course he'd do weird things like shower with the door open. "My apartment window was also open," he explains. "And then I heard screaming. The kind of screaming that tells you that something really bad is going on—like someone is being murdered. So I scrambled out of the shower. I didn't have time to change so I just, uh, threw on my underwear and ran outside. I even left the shower on."

My mouth slowly falls open and I stare at Steve, mouth frozen in an open laughing position. "You…you ran out onto the street dripping wet and naked?!"

"I wasn't naked!" Steve says. "I was wearing boxers!"

"Did they have the stars and stripes on them?" I ask slyly.

"Y—Hey, that's irrelevant," Steve says, though the tips of his ears are glowing red. He clears his throat. "Anyway…it turns out that no one was being murdered. I ran out onto the street and down the street and everyone I passed was staring at me. Except there was no real emergency—it was just a cat stuck in a tree." Steve starts to laugh and I can't help it—I start laughing too. I'm one of those people that tends to laugh when other people laugh. I'm also one of those people that sometimes laughs at really inappropriate moments, though I've been controlling that better. I still remember when our ninth grade math teacher died and I started giggling when the principal stepped into tell us. That didn't do anything to make me any more popular…

"So what did you do?" I ask, trying to quell my laughter.

Steve's lips are pressed tight but his mouth quivers and I can tell he's trying to control his laughter as well. "I saved the cat, of course. I was already there and the owner wouldn't stop screaming. So I climbed the tree and got the cat down." He bursts into helpless laughter then and says, "It took _six _tries to yank the cat from the tree. It kept yowling at me. I think it _wanted _to get away from its owner. She seemed kind of hysterical. I practically had to beg the cat to come down with me."

Alright. That's it. The thought of a soaking wet, almost naked super-soldier climbing a tree and pleading with a cat and taking _six _tries with his super-strength to yank a stubborn cat from a tree—well, let's just say that the thought of it is so funny I immediately lose it. I bend over, clutching my stomach and helplessly laughing as I picture the scene. Every time my laughter dies down a little Steve's voice, pleading with a cat, comes into my head and a fresh round of hysterics rise up and I keep laughing to the point where my face is hot and my stomach aches. It doesn't help that Steve's laughing alongside me and—

I hear a low chuckle from next to me and I glance over, wiping my eyes, to see Bucky desperately trying to keep a serious expression but his mouth is twitching slightly and he's shaking his head and I lose it all over again. Even the _Winter Soldier _thinks the story is funny so I'm allowed to think the story is funny too.

Eventually I stop laughing and I lean back against the sofa, saying, "Ah, man, that was great…" and pat my stomach, which hurts from laughing so much. "I didn't even finish my story," adds Steve, still laughing quietly to himself. "So I saved the cat. The owner didn't even thank me, though I did get a round of applause from the crowd around the tree. And I guess a street artist saw the whole thing because I found this drawing taped to my motorcycle one day."

"That is one wild story," I say. "You get up to some real crazy times, Steve. Saving cats from trees. Next you'll be telling me you're a _real _rebel and you help old ladies cross streets—in your underwear of course."

Steve laughs and then looks down at his hands. "Yep. That's me. Badass rebel."

I know he's joking and he doesn't really mean it—but when I think about it for a moment, I realize Steve kind of _is _a rebel. One the outside surface, he's Mr. Morals and Values, all shiny and goody-goody and noble. The good guy, the nice guy, the golden guy. Call him a "rebel" and you'll probably have twenty Captain America diehard fans shoot burning arrows into your home. Or throw homemade shields made out of pizza pans through your window. But he kind of _is _a rebel because his good guy ideals aren't normal or accepted anymore. It seems to me that the world is all about security and suspicion and greed and when you combine these three things, you get a dangerous mix of paranoia and secrets and shadowy organizations watching your every move and hurting you in _advance _to you even doing anything. If you seem like you might do something bad, they'll get you, even if you haven't even done anything bad yet. Basically the whole aim of Project Insight.

But Steve's against that. His ideals may seem goody-goody and moral but these days, being moral _is _being rebellious. So he's not so far off from being a "badass rebel" as he thinks he is. I'd tell him this but it would just be too flattering, you know? He's already the superhero and Bucky's already the badass so only I get to be the rebel in this trio.

I turn to look at Bucky and notice that he winces when he moves his metal arm. I narrow my eyes as I focus on it; he's holding it awkwardly, stiffly away from his body, as if bend it at the elbow is too painful. He's trying to hide the pain, hasn't said anything about it to either of us ever since the café day, but I can see that it hurts. This needs to be fixed. Luckily I have an idea in mind which I will put into effect soon.

"What do you think, Bucky?" I ask, leaning over and poking him in the arm (the human arm; I'm not _that _mean). "Funny?"

"Don't poke me."

"It was funny, admit it," I say, grinning.

He sighs. "Fine. It was funny."

"Okay, then laugh."

"No."

"Aw, come on." I lean over and poke him again. I know it's like poking an aggravated lion with a stick—I'm playing with fire and I have no one to blame but myself if he decides to rip my head off—but I can't help it. I want the old Bucky Barnes back. "Smile. You're too good looking not to."

He looks surprised for a moment and then he does something that startles me even more: he turns, raises an eyebrow, and smiles at me, a wicked smile, a handsome and mischievous smile that looks like the smile a playboy would give a girl he knows he's going to get. I blink, my cheeks getting a little hot, and he drops the smile, back to his normal frown and furrowed eyebrows. "Happy?" he asks grouchily.

_Very_, I think to myself, turning away. I discreetly fan myself under the guise of pushing my hair back and I think no one's noticed but when Bucky turns to look out the window, I see a momentary laughing gleam in his eyes, as if he knows what effect he's had on me. It's there for just a moment and then gone, like a shooting star.

* * *

I wake up early the next morning, before anyone else rises. It's not hard. I've been sleeping more soundly now that I have an actual bed (er, sofa) to sleep on and now that I don't have to worry about being attacked in my sleep anymore—but four years of sleeping paranoid and light don't leave you quickly, so my eyes open when I want them to, which is around six a.m. Steve's normally out running or exercising at this time but I lean over and see that he's still fast asleep. His blanket is tangled around his legs, he's wearing a thin gray t-shirt, and his mouth is slightly open as he sleeps, his chest rising and falling with his breaths. He has shadows under his eyes—is he exhausted? I bet hosting both of your long-lost best friends in your tiny apartment is tiring—but his cheeks and lips are pink and he looks kind of cute in an innocent, angelic sort of way. _Sleeping _is a good look on Steve Rogers.

I silently get up and tip toe over to where my barely-used cell phone is charging. I yank it off the plug and pad out of the apartment, not bothering to put on shoes or a robe. It's warm out and I'm not going anywhere far. No one's going to see me in my black track pants and baggy t-shirt that says _$nob_ on it. (Don't ask, I found it at some teenage store and it was black and cheap so I got it. It's my aesthetic, remember?)

I don't want to talk in the hallway—this might get loud if I need to do some convincing (or threatening)—so I push past the door at the end of the hallway and head up the enclosed stairwell to the rooftop. I wince and rub my head as I pass the railings where Bucky slammed my head the first time he tried to take me. I'm still convinced he did it on purpose.

I throw open the door to the roof and step outside. It's six a.m. so it's slightly chilly but warm enough that the coolness of the morning air feels refreshing. I slowly walk across the roof to the ledge opposite the door, feet stepping on cool tiny gravelly rocks that haven't had the chance to heat up yet because the sun hasn't risen. Give it till midday and walking barefoot across the roof will feel like walking across blazing coals. I cross my arms and survey the world around me. The sky is pale blue with misty, white clouds that blanket the sky. It's mostly silent except for a few random cars whooshing past on the street below and a dog barking faintly in the distance somewhere. It's a Saturday. People won't be getting up for another hour or two. And perhaps some teenagers will be hastily going to bed after staying up all night and just now realizing morning is here. So different from the last time I was on this roof. It was night then, warm and smoky, and the whole scene had a feeling of paranoia and panic because Bucky led us on a chase up here.

I slowly click through my phone's address book with clumsy fingers. I refused to let Steve buy me one of those slippery touch screen phones but I'm still horrible even with this "old fashioned" flip phone that has actual buttons. At the time, I didn't know why I needed half the numbers that Steve's programmed in here—and I still don't even know who half of these people are—but now I've found a use for at least _one _of them.

It's about six-thirty in the morning but he picks up on the second ring—"Dizzy!"—and he sounds very…alert. Almost as if he's been expecting my call.

I frown at nothing. "It's Fizzy. Actually, it's Vict—"

"Really? I wasn't aware. I'm gonna keep calling you Dizzy, is that alright with you?"

"No—"

"Thanks, Dizzy."

Have I just gained _another _nickname? Enough with this nonsense. I loudly say, "Is this Tony Stark?"

"I thought we'd already established that," he says and I hear a muffled bang in the background. "_Ouch_!" he hisses.

"Um, you never actually told me your name," I say. "This could have been a spy for all I know—"

"And it still could be," he cuts in. "You still _don't_ know. So let's just assume that I'm Tony Stark. What do you need, kid?"

"How are you so casual about this?" I demand, pacing aimlessly around the roof and not really seeing where I'm going. "You picked up like—like you know who I am and that I was going to call."

"Rogers told me who you were," says Stark and I hear another muffled bang and then someone faintly shouting in the background. "_No, no, no, you idiot_— Anyway, he told me that if you ever called, I was under no circumstances to ignore your call because you might be in need of my help and if I ignored you and you died or something, he would freeze _me _for seventy years." He pauses mid-speech and takes a deep breath. "And I was tempted to ignore your call just to piss off the good ol' Cap but I like Pepper too much to be frozen and have her grow old without me."

"I have no idea what any of that meant," I say.

"Good, I can safely ramble to you, I like you already," he says.

"Why are you awake?" I ask. I'm kind of curious about the noises in the background. I know he's Iron Man and an inventor (it's what I've been researching these past few days). Is he building something new?

"Working," he mutters and he sounds distracted. I hear a faint whirring noise and then a clang and then— "NO, DUMBO! NO! Go sit in your corner! Actually—no, get me a whiskey on the ro—actually, NO, GO SIT IN THE CORNER."

"On what?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. Steve didn't inform me that Tony Stark was a _madman_.

"Never you mind," he snaps. "Why are _you _up? Shouldn't you be off robbing a bank or whatever juvenile delinquents do these days?"

"I need your help," I say, taking a deep breath. "I have a—"

"Not interested," he says.

"But I—"

"Not. Interested. Listen, kid, I've got a lot of work to do—a lot of stuff to sort out—and I don't have time to fix your laptop or whatever is that you need to—"

"I'll tell Steve you threatened me," I say sweetly, letting a threatening note of danger drip into my tone.

This makes him pause. "Wha—?" he says. It sounds as if he's mumbling through a mouthful of metal. Judging from the hammering going on at his end, he may very well be mumbling through a mouthful of metal. "Are you _threatening _me? Do you know who I _am_?"

"I know _exactly _who you are," I say, "which is why I've come right to you for help. And yes, I am threatening you. Do you know who _I_ am? Steve'll probably kill you on sight if I say so. He'd probably take your eyes. He probably wouldn't even ask for _proof_."

There's a speculative silence (at least it feels speculative to me but what do I know, Stark may be silently imagining himself brutally murdering me) on his end and then he suddenly does the strange thing: he lets out a short, semi-amused chuckle. "Oh, that's good. You're clever. I like that. Alright, you win—what do you want?"

I feel a rush of victory. Sometimes you just need to politely and nicely ask people for favors. And sometimes you need to threaten them. I'm not too fussy about which way I use but threatening is definitely easier and usually produces better results. "I have a friend," I say, "and he has a metal arm. It's not a normal"—I screw up my face and try to remember the word—"_prosthetic_. It's advanced. Technology that isn't available to the public yet. It's a _fully _metal arm and he can use it like a normal arm and he can feel sensation and pressure and pain through this metal arm. It's also ten times stronger than a normal metal arm."

"Right. Freaky metal robot arm," Stark says. "Check. And…?"

"And it's malfunctioning," I say in a hurry. "It's hurting him. And I've done research on you online, I know you're a tech genius, I know you deal with technology that other people can't even dream of. I want you to take a look at his arm and fix it."

"I can't promise that, Dizzy," says Stark after a long pause.

"But you can _look _at it," I say forcefully. "And _try _to fix it. Right?" I let my tone get dangerous again.

He sighs. "Right. Well, I guess I can see your friend. I wasn't planning on meeting with you at all—but whatever. I need a new toy to work on. See you tomorrow."

I don't like him calling Bucky a _toy _but I'm more focused on the other part of his sentence. "You—what? You weren't _planning _on meeting with us? See you tomorrow? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, he didn't tell you?" Stark sounds surprised. Something simply enormous appears to blow up in the background his end. It sounds like the world is ending. "Huh. Well, whatever. I'll leave that up to him. I have to go now. Later, kid." And the phone line goes dead. I look at my phone in surprise and then slowly snap it shut, thinking hard about what Stark's just told me. It sounded like he was _expecting _us—but how could that be if I just called him…?

No matter. He's agreed to see Bucky. All that matters is convincing Bucky to let us take him to New York, where the Stark tower is.

New York. _New York_. Our home. The city we grew up in. The city we spent our lives in, the city none of us ever got to leave in a proper way. Bucky hasn't been back as himself. Neither have I. Steve's only been back twice and he's never been back to Brooklyn. There are places we must go, things we have to see. Explore. Rekindle Bucky's lost memories. The thought of seeing my old apartment building—if it's even there—and my old haunts and hangout spots sets an aching, dull flame ablaze in my chest. What will it feel like, being back in New York city?

Someone clears their throat from behind me and I sigh and fold my arms. Of course he followed me. I turn and raise one eyebrow at Steve, who is leaning against the door to the rooftop, also barefoot and in his pajamas. "Did you think I was running away?"

"Not at all," he says. "You left barefooted. I knew you wouldn't run away like that. I knew you wouldn't run away _period_—not now that Bucky is here."

The way he says that makes me uneasy, as if he thinks I'm only staying for Bucky's sake and not his sake. That's not true. I'm staying for Steve too. "Not as long as _you're _here too," I say roughly, trying not to be too mushy-gushy about it. "I'm not here just for Bucky."

"Oh, I know," Steve says in surprise. "I didn't mean— I just meant that Bucky needs more help. So you wouldn't leave him hanging."

Oh. Steve really does seem to think highly of me. I don't think I deserve it. If anyone deserves to be thought highly of, it's _him_. He's the hero.

"How much did you hear?" I ask.

"Enough," he says sheepishly, smiling. "Sorry. Didn't mean to eavesdrop. I was just curious to see what you were doing. I didn't know you were making a phone call."

"Is Tony Stark expecting us?" I ask.

"He actually is," Steve admits. "That's the project I said I was working on. He wants us—and a few other people—to regroup and stay at the Stark Tower. Now that SHIELD is done, for security measures. Planning. Me being an 'Avenger' and all that," he adds apologetically, seeing my confused expression. "We need to stick together." His tone sounds a little grudging, like he doesn't actually want to stick together.

"Ah," I say. "Right. The Avengers. Does this mean Natasha is coming? And—um, the green monster guy and the others?" I've done my research on the Avengers as well. They're a wacky bunch.

"Eventually, I think so," he says. "But in the meanwhile we're going to be the first to go." He shrugs, frowning slightly. "I don't want to abandon my apartment here—but Stark's right, as much as I hate to admit it. I don't have much of a reason to stay here anymore."

"Sam is here," I point out. "Peggy is here," I add in a softer voice.

Steve looks away into the distance, running a hand absentmindedly through his blond hair. "Sam has his own life and he can come to New York if he needs to. And Peggy…" He sighs. "She has her _real _friends and family. She doesn't need me here."

_You _are_ a friend to her_, I want to say. But I think that would be me crossing some invisible line so I keep my mouth shut and instead ask, "So you're not mad at me calling Stark for help with Bucky's arm? Because his arm does need help. And I don't know who else to trust. I mean, not that I trust Tony Stark—I don't even know him and he purposely calls me by the wrong name which means he sucks, kind of—but _you _trust him." I see a slightly irritated expression on Steve's face and I roll my eyes and amend, "You _sort _of trust him. Maybe about as far as you could thr—" I pause. Steve's a super-soldier. He can throw _very _far. "Maybe about as far as _I_ can throw him," I correct, "but still. You trust him."

Steve shrugs. "No, you're right. I'm not mad. Bucky needs help. I don't know how much I can trust Stark with Bucky's secret…" His eyes darken for a moment as if he's just realized something horrible and he freezes—but almost as soon as it happens it stops and he relaxes and his eyes lighten. I can't tell what I've just seen and it's gone too soon for me to ask. Is he hiding something from me? "But we were going there anyway, so I guess it's good that you told Stark we needed his help." His tone sounds a bit unhappy and there's a distant look in his eyes but I can sense that he's not going to give anything up even if I do ask—so I don't.

"Alright, then all we have to do is convince Bucky to go," I say and he nods. We both head back down the stairs to Steve's floor. We walk in silence side by the side and we're nearing Steve's door when he suddenly snorts with muffled laughter and says, "Victoria?"

"Yeah?" I ask, not glancing at him and reaching for the door handle.

"I love you but I definitely would _not _take out Stark's eyes for you."


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Sorry for how long it took to update! Life's getting busier again, as I'm sure it is with all of you as well. I mentioned this on the latest chapter for **_**The Second Trial **_**but I'll mention it here as well: Updates may get a bit more infrequent and there may be longer gaps between updates simply because school is starting soon and it's going to be a tough year and then add family, friends, and other things and life gets crazy. I'm not giving up on this story—I'd never do that—but stay patient with me, okay? Thanks! Read, review, all that good stuff. **

**Also, who's seen Guardians of the Galaxy?! I haven't yet, will see it by the time I next update, but it's getting amazing reviews! Marvel hits another home run. **

* * *

Bucky initially refuses to take a trip to see Tony Stark. He provides a very compelling argument. It goes something like this: "No." It's accompanied by a surly frown and clenched fists. See? Told you. Very compelling.

"But why not?" I ask. "He can fix your arm." Steve shoots me a sharp look and I amend my words. "He can take a look at your arm and _try_ to fix it." We don't want to give Bucky any false hope—though if the famous Tony Stark can't fix Bucky's arm, I think Bucky might be out of luck.

Bucky looks twitchy and cagey, like an agitated animal that's been locked up and is now being poked with a stick. "No doctors," he growls.

Flashback. Memories of being held down in a chair while doctors in white coats and gas mask type of face masks—that completely cover the face—bend over me, sticking needles in me and checking my vitals and other things in body after an obstacle course. Me, already freaked out and stressed and afraid after being pushed to use my powers in brutal ways, squirming and trying desperately to see a face, _any _human face—but only seeing masks. And white lab coats.

Always the white lab coats.

I suddenly feel a surge of sympathy for Bucky. I don't like doctors either, they make me sweaty and anxious, but at least the most they ever did to me was draw blood and fluids and poke at me. They actually tortured him and did surgical procedures on his mind and body. No wonder he doesn't trust doctors. Why would he? He probably doesn't remember ever meeting a good one.

"Tony Stark is not a doctor," Steve explains, leaning forward and clasping his hands under his chin. "He's a…mechanist. To use the most basic word. He fixes things—machinery—and he creates things."

"He creates machines?" Bucky asks slowly.

"Yeah," says Steve. "Like he's made this s—"

"So he creates monsters," Bucky says. His voice is flat but his breathing is quickening. His temper is rising and I take a tiny step back. I don't want to be in the line of fire if he decides to rip apart the closest thing to him…which is currently _me_. "Like me."

Steve looks shocked for a moment, blinking and staring at Bucky, and then he quickly says, "No, no, you've got it all wrong, Bucky! You're—you're not a monster," he says. "HYDRA is. And Stark, he builds machines. Not humans. His machines can't think on their own. They're like…high-tech suits of armor. You know, like the kind knights wear?"

"So he's a knight," Bucky says.

Steve looks a bit like he's sucking on a lemon. "Hmmm. I wouldn't go that far. He's kind of…"

"An a-hole," I offer.

Steve shoots me a look that says _NOT helpful, Victoria_, and then says, "He's kind of a loner. One-man-for-himself type. Not a soldier. I'm going to be honest, we don't get along well. But he's a good guy, deep down." Steve pauses and it looks like he's refraining himself from saying, _Deeeeeeeeeeeeep down_. "Just not really my style. But he still agreed to try and help you."

"You have to say yes," I pressure Bucky. "You don't want to live with a wonky arm, do you?"

"Wonky arm," Bucky repeats, looking at me as if I'm mad.

"Trust me, he's not going to hurt you," I say confidently. "He's an Avenger or whatever dorky name they gave themselves to seem cool." Steve looks slightly offended out of the corner of my eye. Whatever. "And if he does hurt you…I'll kill him."

"No killing anyone, Victoria," Steve interjects severely. He pauses and then adds, "At least not without me as backup."

I grin at Steve and then grin at Bucky. "See? We've got your back, even if you're likely to maybe stab ours in the literal sense."

"What?" Steve says.

"Say yes, Bucky," I say.

"What do you mean in the literal sense?" Steve asks.

"Say yes," I repeat.

Bucky's eyes dart back and forth between me and Steve and he looks kind of like he thinks both of us are completely out of our minds. I can see his forehead is slightly shiny with sweat; is it the strain of seeing someone new, making decisions for himself…or is our banter just freaking him out? But he finally bites his lip for a second and then allows, "Fine. I'll see him. But one wrong move—"

"We know, we know, you'll kill him and everyone around him," I say.

"But spare his girlfriend, Pepper Potts," says Steve. "She's nice."

"He's dating someone?" I ask in surprise. So that's what Stark meant earlier, when he mentioned a Pepper Potts. I thought he was talking about a deep love of seasoning. "Funny, I thought Tony Stark could never date anyone but Tony Stark."

"He _is _pretty in love with himself," Steve admits. "It actually kind of drives me crazy, which is why I stay out of his way, mostly. He has this big old ugly tower—this building in New York City—and it's named after him. Stark Tower."

"Ego maniac," I say wisely even though A) I barely know Tony Stark, and B) I'm sort of an ego maniac myself so pot definitely calling the kettle black.

"Yeah, but the S, T, R, and K were knocked down during the invasion of New York," Steve says, "so now it just says 'A' and for some reason he hasn't gotten it fixed."

"It probably stands for Avengers," I say.

Steve looks stunned. "I never thought of that."

"Clearly you're the brawn and not the brains of the team," I tease with a wicked grin.

"Excuse you, Victoria," Steve says. "I think I have plenty brains. And brawn. And _definitely _beauty."

"Oh, of course," I say, kicking my feet up onto the table.

"Feet off!" Steve says, shooting into a half-standing position for a moment and then slowly sitting back down. "That's hand-polished oak!"

"Okay, sorry, didn't know you were such a furniture connoisseur," I say, throwing my hands up in the universal _I admit defeat _sign. "I also didn't know you were such a fan of the _Ladies' Home Journal _and—what was it? Wait"—I rifle around in the magazines piled next to me and yank one out—"Ah, yes, _Teen Vogue_."

Steve blushes, he actually blushes, and it looks hilarious on him. "I didn't get any of those. People give me these things, to help me catch up. Natasha, Stark, the—" He breaks off with a wondering look on his face and it occurs to me that before Bucky, Sam, or I entered into Steve's life (or _re_-entered into his life), Steve was kind of a loner with no friends. I don't count Tony Stark sending him free goodies and Natasha occasionally dropping by every few months as _friends_. So really, Steve had no friends. Wow. Even I made more friends and I was a mean homeless kid who lived on the streets and regularly beat kids up.

"You two talk too much," Bucky suddenly says. He looks exhausted and Steve and I both laugh, amusement tinged with just a bit of sad nostalgia, because back in the day, it was Bucky who never shut up. Oh how the times really have changed…

There's a sudden knock at the door and we all look at each other for a minute. We haven't had one visitor—or even any phone calls—since Bucky came back to stay with us. Natasha is in hiding (though she must be close by, if she managed to drop off a car for Steve), Fury is God-knows-where, and people like Agent Hill and Agent 13 have gone their own ways to find new jobs, though I'm sure they'll be back if they need to be. Steve gets up and goes to open the door. I see Bucky tense slightly, sliding down the sofa a bit and reaching behind his back for, presumably, a knife. His favorite toy. Wonderful.

"Cap!" comes Sam's cheerful voice and I immediately lunge for Bucky, grabbing his arm and pressing it down, his small but deadly blade flashing in the light.

"Put it away," I hiss, attempting to take it out of his death grip. "He's not the enemy!"

Bucky doesn't want to let the knife go and we silently and furiously wrestle for it for a moment—he's definitely winning, he's pinning my wrists down and for a moment his face is inches from mine and we're staring at each other, his eyes dark blue-green eyes full of confusion but then also surprise at my face being so close to his. He smells like soap and something woodsy—and then he flips the knife away and scoots away from me. I'm left sitting there with my hands on the sofa, leaning forward slightly as if I'm expecting a kiss…but there's no one there to kiss me. It's all happened in a silent few seconds and Sam and Steve at the door clearly haven't even noticed by the way they noisily make their way inside, talking and grinning.

"Fizztoria, nice to see you, girl," says Sam, pulling me into a quick hug as I stand to greet him. "Looking a little healthier, I'm guessing you're not hungry enough to want to eat my shoes anymore."

"Not anymore," I say, smiling. Sam is infectious. He's so annoying but annoying in the best way where you can't help but give a grudging smile because his enthusiasm for life and wisecracks and innocent flirtations are so…happy. He's been through hell—Steve's told me about what happened to his old best friend—but he's come out like a real champ, never letting the bad stuff get him down for too long. I guess I could learn a few lessons from him, since I hold onto the bitterness and anger much more than he does, obviously.

"And here he is, the man of the moment, James Buchanan Barnes," says Sam, looking down at Bucky with his eyebrows slightly raised, hands in his pockets, impressed. "Heard you were a real ladies' man back in the day. You're scruffier now but I think you've got that grunge, bad boy market locked, you know? Lucky thing, too, because I've got the handsome, charming, nice guy market covered."

Bucky blinks as Sam shoots his rapid-fire jokey talk at him. "What?"

"Never mind," says Sam. "Nice to meet you, man." He holds out a hand. Bucky stares at it suspiciously (and with some confusion as well) before slowly reaching out and grasping it. Sam pumps his hand once, twice, and then lets go. Bucky's kind of tense but limp all at the same time, like he's ready to throw himself into battle but he doesn't have the heart to act very human or normal. Sam either doesn't notice or pretends not to notice and his liveliness is enough to make up for Bucky's lack of it. "I forgive you for ripping my wing off and throwing me to the Earth," Sam adds graciously, "though if you ever do it again, I'm going to royally kick your wintery ass."

I try to hide my smile and Bucky scowls, looks like he's debating if he wants to teach Sam a lesson. Steve sighs but he shakes his head and he's smiling to himself too.

"So anyway," Sam says, plopping down onto the other sofa, "I heard y'all were leaving for the Big Apple so I thought I'd drop by, say my goodbyes…and hellos."

I stare at Sam and so does Steve, blue eyes widening just a bit, head tilting to the side slightly. Clearly he has no idea what Sam's on about either. "Meaning…?" Steve asks slowly.

"Meaning I _miiiiight _be heading out to Stark Tower myself eventually," says Sam.

My mouth falls open a little. "What? Why? You're not an Avenger too, are you?"

"Why, are they hiring?" Sam asks mischievously, a glint in his eye. "No, but for real—I liked being back in action. I liked being Falcon. Got a taste of adventure and now my mind just won't quiet down, you know? I feel restless. And my job is pretty boring, training cadets and stuff. And just when I was thinking I might have to join a water aerobics class or something—great way to meet the ladies, by the way—I get a phone call from a Ms. Potts, telling me Tony Stark heard about how I helped Cap and he thought I might be useful in the future for a fight."

My skin prickles for a moment. Useful for a future fight? Is Stark anticipating a future fight? Is there something going on that I don't know about? I glance sharply at Steve but he's staring intently at Sam and his face betrays nothing.

I'll just have to wrench it out of Tony Stark, then.

"I'm not heading out there now, mind," Sam adds. "Maybe in a few weeks. I have stuff to get wrapped up here. But eventually, yeah, you'll be seeing more of this handsome chocolatey face."

I stuff my fist into my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

"Victoria, why are you trying to put your whole fist in your mouth?" Steve asks, looking very concerned.

I immediately yank it out.

"But what about your job here?" Steve asks. "I mean the counseling one. And your home…your family…?"

Sam shrugs. "They'll still be here. I'm not selling my apartment or anything. Just gonna head out to NYC and see what's up, see what I can do. Maybe it'll come to nothing and I'll head back home—or maybe something will happen. Who knows?" He pauses and then an uncharacteristically serious expression comes over his face. "I just feel like…Riley would want me to do this. He lived life. He's the one who taught me to take opportunities and seize them, run with them, go the distance. You know what I'm saying?"

Steve glances in Bucky's direction for a moment before saying, "Yeah, I do."

He's looking at Sam so he doesn't notice it when Bucky slightly looks at Steve for a moment before giving a tiny nod to himself. Bucky doesn't even realize _I've _noticed. I look away before he catches me.

Maybe it should hurt, realizing that _I_ wasn't the one who inspired either Steve or Bucky to live life to the fullest—but it doesn't. My stomach sits calm and cool. Because it's true; I didn't do that. Maybe I taught them other things, but this wasn't one of them. _They _taught _me _how to live life to the fullest. I used to rely on them for that.

"Anyway," Steve says, coming over and clapping Sam on the back. "That's great news. I'm not saying it wouldn't be better for you to stay in D.C.—things get dangerous when Stark is around—but it'll be nice to see another familiar face in New York."

Sam leans back on the couch and glances at the shut-off TV for a second, saying, "I don't know, man, have you been watching the news lately?"

Steve doesn't respond but the answer is clear on his face: No, he hasn't been. He's been busy with Bucky and I, trying to plan something with Stark (which can't have been easy, considering how much he seems to dislike him), and probably spending all his spare time thinking about SHIELD and Bucky.

"You guys have been missing some stuff," Sam says. "SHIELD only _just_ collapsed but crime is already up around the world by a lot. Some really weird things have been happening—like some guy in Tahiti who scared some tourists because he could shoot fire from his hands. He disappeared before anyone could catch him and he hasn't been seen since. And there was this guy seen in Indonesia who was climbing walls like a lizard and breaking into places to steal stuff—except he was blending in like a chameleon. Like he was _legit _changing background colors. They haven't found him yet either…though I have the feeling he might be kind of impossible to find…"

Steve and I stare at Sam for a few moments and then we exchange glances and Steve looks just as weirded out as I think I do. "Well, that's…strange," Steve says slowly, his face still scrunched up in a slightly _What the actual hell? _expression. I remember Agents Lansky and Gutierrez telling me that SHIELD dealt with supernatural and paranormal "threats" (as Agent Lansky dubbed it). I think it's safe to say that human chameleons and people shooting fire from their hands would have been SHIELD's area of expertise…except SHIELD is gone so these people are running rampant. In fact…the way that so many of these people are popping up _after _SHIELD's fallen makes me think maybe some of them were being held by SHIELD. In, like, SHIELD jail. Or whatever it's called.

A mass breakout from SHIELD prisons that hold supernatural weirdos who are now using their powers and abilities to wreak havoc upon the world. With no SHIELD to hunt them down. Great.

I can't help but feel that this is partly Natasha and Fury's fault, for dumping every SHIELD secret online. Sure, it exposed HYDRA—but it completely ended SHIELD too. If they hadn't done that, _some _vestige of SHIELD may have remained…but after the secrets came out, it was all over.

"Yeah, stuff like that," Sam says. "Not saying it's your problem. Just saying that…we may need to suit up sooner than we thought. That's why I'm heading out to New York. I've put one foot back in the game, might as well jump in all the way."

"You don't have to do that," Steve says, frowning. "I know you're _saying_ you want to—but I'm telling you right now that you should only come if you absolutely do want to. You're not obligated to come fight with us…whenever the fight may be, whoever it may be against. You helped me a few weeks ago and I can never repay you for that—but that doesn't mean you _need _to help me again and again. I don't want you to feel like that."

"I don't feel like that, trust me," Sam says, getting to his feet and smiling slightly. "Seriously, dude, it's fine. I want to get back in the game. Our last adventure just gave me the push I needed to make the decision." He checks a black-and-gold watch on his wrist and says, "I gotta get going… But you guys are taking off tomorrow?"

"Yep," I say.

"Flying commercial?" he asks.

"What?"

He rolls his eyes slightly. "I keep forgetting that you're from the past too. Are you flying on a normal airplane?"

"As opposed to what else?" I ask, puzzled. Is there a non-normal kind of airplane?

Sam looks dangerously close to rolling his eyes again so Steve hastily says, "Yeah, I've booked tickets for tomorrow. Horrible seats but that's what we get for buying last minute."

"I see," Sam says. He pauses and looks at us. "All of you. On a commercial jet. Surrounded by tons of people. Huh."

Is that what airplanes are like nowadays? They can hold lots of people? Lots of _normal_, everyday citizens? I've never been on a plane before. I sit frozen for a moment, thinking of flying in a huge and heavy metal contraption through the air. So many lives on board. So many things that could go wrong. Running into a storm. Being shot down by enemy li—oh, wait, this isn't World War II anymore. That won't happen. But still… Bucky. Bucky, tense and agitated Bucky who hates being around people and hates being in confined spaces. Bucky, getting freaked out and losing his mind and ripping a hole in the plane. Destroying things. The plane going down in flames. Everyone dying.

My underarms suddenly feel prickly and my forehead erupts with sweat. I feel a bit ill. Suddenly this doesn't seem like such a good idea, for both reasons: flying in a plane seems really scary…and flying in a plane with the current Bucky seems even scarier.

"Sam," I say, and my voice comes out a bit hoarse and squeaky. Bucky snorts in the background, presumably at my voice. "When you mentioned normal airplane…seriously, what's a _non-_normal airplane?"

"Well…like a private jet," Sam says, looking a bit bewildered.

"A private jet? What's that?"

"Like a small airplane only for a few people," he says. "A lot of really rich, famous, and powerful people have them. Like say Madonna wants to go to Japan. She's gonna take a private jet so she's the only one on the plane."

Rich, famous, and powerful, did he say? Hmmm. Another Fizzy plan is forming in the depths of my plotting mind.

"Thanks, Sam," I say, smiling sweetly at him. "You're a great help."

Sam shakes his head twice. "You know, when you smile like that, you look like a total angel. You're going to drive the boys crazy, especially because you're a little demon on the inside."

I grin wickedly and Bucky frowns slightly. So does Steve, though where Bucky looks a little jealous (or is that just my wild hopes and fantasies coloring my vision? Sigh, I think it is. I'm a silly goose) Steve just looks potentially concerned and frightened for any poor future boys who may have the misfortune to mistake me for an angel and fall for me.

Sam says his goodbyes and then heads out. Steve says something about getting started packing and he heads into his room. I have nothing to pack—all my clothes will fit in one bag—so I stay out in the living room where Bucky is still lazily slouching on the sofa. He eyes me with his head tilted and a dangerous look in his eyes as I ignore him and tap my finger on my lip for a moment, thinking hard. Should I do it now…or later? I think now might be better because I may not get a chance later today…

"You're planning something," Bucky says slowly. His brows are furrowed but he looks almost…_amused_. The corners of his mouths are turning up in a slightly incredulous way, almost like _I can't believe this girl_. "That guy—Sam—he was right. You're dangerous."

"Thank you," I say with genuine pleasure. "So are you."

"Yeah, but you"—he sits up and leans forward, jabbing a finger towards me—"you don't _look _dangerous. From a distance…you look…you look normal. Small. Weak."

I roll my eyes. "Uh, thanks."

"But when you look more closely at your eyes," he continues, seeming fascinated by me, "they're dangerous inside. That's new. You didn't have that look in your eyes before."

"All very true," I say, shrugging. "Times change, Bucko." I wince. Ew. I will not be using that nickname for him again. It sounded better in my head. I pat his metal arm and he winces as an electric shock or something probably jabs at him. "Clearly you know this."

"And you don't tiptoe around my issues," he says, seeming almost awestruck. "Like St…Steve does."

"Yeah, I think I'm a bit blunter than Captain America," I say. "Does it bother you?"

He blinks as if no one's really ever asked him if anything bothers him—as if no one's ever cared if something bothers him—and then he says, "I don't know." He lapses into a moody silence, as if he's contemplating whether it bothers him or not. I wait for him to speak some more but he's clearly done for the day. He probably won't speak another word today. Oh well, this is more than I've heard him speak in ages, so he's doing well.

"Well, I'm off," I say, grabbing my phone off the table and waving it in his face. "You know, planning and whatnot."

Bucky's eyes narrow but he just watches me, a very peaceful and lazy expression on his face as I leave. I'm hoping this is a sign he's getting more comfortable around us, that he's not as twitchy and tense as a live wire. Now being a plane with a bunch of strangers…whole different story. I have a feeling he'll lose it then. I'm actually surprised Steve isn't worried about it.

Unless he is and he's uncharacteristically bottling it up.

I head up to the roof which seems like it's going to be my official calling destination as long as we're here and dial Tony Stark again. He picks up on the third ring with a grouchy, "Why the hell do you keep calling me."

"This is only my second time!"

"Yeah, well, still. I told you, Dizzy, I'm a busy man. You _just _called me this morning. What could you possibly need now?"

"A private jet."

"What? You're out of your mind. I will not let you fly a private jet without a license. I'll have you know, I'm a law-abiding citiz—" He breaks off with a snort of laughter. "No, I'm not. But still. No."

"Aw, come on. Do it for me."

"Was that supposed to persuade me or something? Why would I 'do it for you'? I don't even know you."

"You know I'm funny. And clever. I'm practically you, except I'm probably better looking and I'm definitely younger." And way poorer.

"Oh, har har. Answer's still no. That would be highly irresponsible of me, to just send private jets whenever random sixteen-year-olds ask for them. You'll get yourself killed or something. You're a hooligan, or so I hear."

"I'm not random. I'm twenty. And it's so cute that you're being all parent-ish and concerned. You're like a dad. How about you adopt me? You can be my new dad. I'd be a great kid, promise."

"You're very disturbing."

I grin to no one in particular. I like winding this guy up. Why doesn't Steve like him again?

"Besides, I don't care if you die. I care about what Rogers will do to me if you die on, or near, Stark property."

My smile drops. That's why Steve doesn't like him. Because he's a self-absorbed jerk. Right.

"Listen up," I say, getting down to business and cutting the banter. "My friend with the metal arm? He also has PTSD. And I mean like _major _PTSD. He's been through hell—wars, fights, murders. He's seen more blood and death and destruction than probably anyone on the planet. The whole dirty deal. So he's very…antsy around normal people. And if we fly on a normal plane…boxed in with lots of people…well, I'm sure you see the problem. He'll probably lose his mind and punch a hole through a wall and end up killing us all. So seriously, we really do need a private jet if you have one. He can't be near people yet. We took him to a café and a bunch of _kids _nearly made him flip a table through a window."

I finish my speech and wait. There's silence on Stark's end and he's silent for so long that I almost think he's hung up on me—except I can hear him breathing. Finally, after an agonizing amount of time where I've almost died of old age (two minutes and thirty seven seconds; I counted), he slowly says, "As it so happens…I know a thing or two about PTSD." He falls silent again.

"O…kay?" I say slowly, not sure if I should be encouraging or not. Where is he going with this? "And…?"

"And I'll send a private jet," he says. "I know what it's like to…" He cuts off and exhales sharply. "Well. Never mind that boring and ridiculous sob story. Wait just one second— PEPPER, WHERE WOULD I LAND A PRIVATE JET IF I WAS SENDING ONE TO D.C.?" I hear him bellow in the background and I wince and hold the phone away from my ear. What a maniac. Someone shouts back on his end and he yells, "I'M NOT A GPS, I DON'T KNOW—Oh, FINE! JARVIS, where would I—" Someone speaks on his end again and there's silence for a moment and then he's back. "Right. Dizzy. I'll text you the address for where the jet will land tomorrow, it's a private hangar. Be there at eight a.m. sharp. If you're late, I'll bring it back and you and your metal-armed friend can chance the normal airlines."

"Fine," I say. "Good doing business with you. Sure you don't want to reconsider adopting me? I've always wanted to be a billionaire's kid."

"Ugh. Children. You're all so needy, even you big ones in your twenties. Anyway, this is my cue to hang up. Please try not to bother me again today." And then he's gone.

I slowly snap my phone shut and then I do the lamest thing ever: a victory fist-pump and then a victory fist-clench while sinking down onto one knee. I know, I know, it's really embarrassing and I'm really glad no one's around to see me act like a total fool. But hey—I've gotten Tony Stark to agree to not only see Bucky but also send us a private jet _all in the same day_. Not bad for a big child in her twenties, yeah?

I had back downstairs and enter Steve's apartment. Bucky is standing in the kitchen twirling a knife and drinking a glass of water and he glances at me when I walk in. "Are you done plotting?" he asks, his voice very sarcastic.

I have no idea why he's giving me attitude but I don't care. I wink at him and smugly say, "Of course. Don't you know who I am? Plotting is my specialty. Along with hovering and floating things using my magic powers."

I head into Steve's bedroom and lean against the door and watch Steve throw things into a small suitcase, rubbing his forehead and muttering to himself. "I'll have to have a lot of my stuff sent to the Stark Tower after," he says distractedly, looking around the room. "I don't have a lot but I have enough that I definitely can't take it all tomorrow. I just…" He clenches and unclenches and clenches his jaw and then suddenly whirls on me. "I just—what if Bucky can't handle it?"

I knew it. He's been bottling it up and that never works for Steve Rogers. He can _do it_…but it makes him frustrated and moody. He prefers to be open. About _everything_.

"Handle what?" I ask innocently, playing along.

"Handle—going to New York! Meeting Tony Stark." He scowls and rubs the back of his neck. "Going on a plane. I'm worried he might…freak out. Hurt himself."

"Or other people," I say, voicing his silent worry that Bucky might vanish back into the Winter Soldier mindset if under too much pressure. I can feel it happening with me sometimes—when the emotions are too overwhelming, the most violent side of Fizzy tugs at my mind and wants me to vanish back into her. To hurt everyone around me and disappear into the night. Alone but safe from any pressure.

I'm trying to keep that side of myself squashed down. Doing pretty well lately, in my opinion,

"Yeah," Steve says, looking a little defeated. He eyes the hall behind me nervously as if he's expecting Bucky to creep up behind me to eavesdrop but of course Bucky is probably still doing knife acrobatics in the kitchenette. "It's…man, I hope it goes well." He rubs his eyes and I think, again, that he looks pretty tired. Poor Steve. He needs a break from us. A well-deserved nap. He's had a seventy-year nap but he looks like he could use another one.

"Well, lucky for you, I took things into my own hands again," I say.

Steve looks at me warily. "Victoria. What did you do?"

I smile at him. "How much do you _exactly _hate Tony Stark? Enough to…say, turn down a ride in one his private jets all the way to Stark Tower?"


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: So I finally saw **_**Guardians of the Galaxy**_**. It was amazing! Funny, exciting, heartfelt…it hit all the right notes (literally! I love how they integrated modern classic music into the movie). Can't wait till I can own it on DVD (probably by December?). **

**Also, check out a new one-shot I wrote about Peggy Carter. It's called **_**Things That Never Fade.**_

* * *

Bucky agreed to meeting Tony Stark earlier but for some reason he suddenly changes his mind and refuses to go again. Obviously this is a huge problem so I start in on him. Hands on my hips, angry mom voice, the whole package. He looks a bit dazed by my lecture. I don't exactly give him much of a choice because come on, I've chartered a private jet for us. There's no way I'm passing up the chance to go up in an airplane for the first time in my life—and a luxury one at that! Also, he's just being stupid and stubborn and unreasonable and I tell him so and his eyes widen and he looks at me like I'm crazy. But perhaps he sees something in my eyes (a mad glint, probably) that tells him that I won't take no for an answer—because he sighs and moodily says, "Fine, I'll go," and that's the end of that. I hope he doesn't change his mind _again_.

There's not much to pack. Steve only has a few belongings that he plans on taking now, I have even fewer belongings, and Bucky has nothing. He's been wearing Steve's clothes, and let me tell you—a scruffy-faced man with dark scowling eyes and long dark hair hunched over in a preppy plaid button down and tan slacks is quite possibly the funniest or scariest thing you might ever see. Depending on your point of view.

Stark texts me an address that night that means nothing to me but Steve has one of those things that tells you where to go, a GPS, so we shouldn't have any trouble finding it. No one really says much that night. We moodily push around pasta on our plates and I can feel the tension in the air. Bucky at having to see his first stranger since straying from HYDRA. Steve at Bucky meeting Tony Stark and something else that I haven't quite figured out yet. Me at…

Okay, honest truth? I'm kind of scared about flying in an airplane. Don't get me wrong, I'm excited too because I've never done it before and I want to know what it feels like to fly. But I'm also scared because the thought of putting our lives in a hunk of heavy metal that's supposed to somehow _stay _in the air? And not come crashing down to Earth? I'm no expert in aeronautics or mechanics or anything even remotely science-y so I know I have no right to question the safety of airplanes—especially since they've been around for ages now—but I'm still scared nonetheless. This isn't like a train or a car or even a ship. If you fall from an airplane…you're gone.

I don't want to be gone. I've just found myself.

Oh, and another honest truth? We're kind of silent and moody because Steve overcooked the spaghetti and it tastes really rubbery and chewy. I'm struggling to eat it so I don't hurt his feelings (look at me being all sensitive) but Bucky (not having the same dazzling social graces as I) has pushed his plate away with an ugly obstinate look on his face. Clearly he's having none of it. I'm going to have to take over the cooking duties from now on. Maybe someone would call that sexist or something—but the fact remains: neither Bucky nor Steve ever learned to cook. We grew up in a time when it was a woman's duty. I still remember how to cook, though I can't make anything gourmet or fancy.

* * *

I can't sleep. I toss and turn trying to pull myself into sleep but my nerves and fear and excitement keep tugging at my heart and stomach so eventually I give up and stare up the ceiling, using my pointer finger to slowly turn the blades of the fan, lost in thoughts. I'm so far away that my heart gives a mad jump when Steve whispers, "Can't sleep?"

I pull my phone out from under my pillow and squint at the screen. It's 2:46 in the morning. "Why are _you _still awake?" I whisper.

He chuckles to himself as if he's laughing at a private joke. "Can't sleep. Also I've been waiting to see how long you stay awake."

"That's really creepy, Steve," I whisper but I'm smiling at the ceiling.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "Tell me what Victoria's thinking. I've never been able to get into your strange head."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask indignantly.

"Easy, killer," he says and I know he means the term in the slang way—but a cold shiver runs down my spine. He's hit a little too close to home, not that he realizes… "I just meant… Bucky was easy to read. He talked about everything he wanted to do—travel, get a job, all that. And I'm pretty sure I'm an open book. But you…" His voice trails off. "You opened up with us. Don't get me wrong. You told us more than you told anyone. Like the fact that you wished your parents had kept in touch with your grandparents in the old country. And that you wanted to visit Greece one day because of that book of Greek mythology you never put down. What was it called again?"

"I can't remember," I whisper. But I can remember it in my head: it was a large red leather-bound book, given to me by my mother, with golden lettering and stories of Greek myths with faded watercolor illustrations. It had probably once been worth a lot but by the time I got it, it was faded and worthless. Not worthless to _me_, though. I wonder what happened to it. Probably ended up in a rubbish heap…like most of my life.

"But sometimes…" Steve continues, "sometimes you would just…look out the window or something and you just got this faraway look in your eyes and I felt like…I had no idea what was going on. I had no idea what you were thinking, what you wanted. I wanted to ask but I felt stupid." He snorts. "It still sounds stupid, right? But…that's just what I felt."

"It's not stupid," I murmur. Steve's right. I had those moments a lot…moments where I felt far away. Disconnected, even from Bucky and Steve. Part of it was that I always assumed I was the third wheel so I was safeguarding my heart from inevitable heartbreak when Steve and Bucky always chose each other over me—but it was mostly me being shy and unable to properly express _everything _I was feeling. I was constantly afraid they'd push me away for being too complicated. I wanted…I wanted so much. I missed my mother. I wanted to travel. I wished I had the money and means to go to a university far away and become someone. As I got older, I wished Bucky would notice me. I wished my father would really _look _at me, realize that I was growing up and he wasn't witnessing any of it.

None of that has changed, when I really think about it. I miss my mother. I miss my father, or who he used to be. I wish Bucky would notice me—though that's more complicated since I don't know who either of us are anymore or who we could be. I still want to travel. I still want to be someone, be important. And I have new desires and wants: I want to be safe. I want the nightmares to go away. I want more power. I want people to take me seriously. I want to be able to control my powers and save someone.

I want to understand why I've been saved for so many generations. There must be some purpose. Some reason I've been given a second chance at life.

Or is there no reason? Is life just empty and random chances? That view certainly fits my usually-cynical stance.

But sometimes I want the rainbows and butterflies and flowers. Sometimes I want to feel like there's something more, something hopeful. (Not unicorns, though; horses with horns that can skewer you? No thanks.)

"So let me into your head," he prompts quietly. "What are you worried about?"

"How do you know I'm worried? Maybe I'm planning murders."

"I can feel it."

A flower of warmth blooms in my belly, deep inside. The feeling that _Someone knows me. Someone is connected to me. Someone cares. _I don't think I'll ever feel secure enough that these realizations will stop stunning me, stop making me happy. You have to grow up happy and secure in your relationships and friendships to take them for granted. But I've had them yanked away from me too many times to ever stop being afraid that one day I'll be alone for _good_.

"Just scared for Bucky," I say. "How he'll cope, you know. That Tony Stark seems like a sharp one. I don't know how well he'll mix with Bucky." I pause and wait to see if Steve reveals his secret; I know he has some issue with Bucky meeting Tony Stark _specifically _but he won't tell me why and I can't puzzle it out. Bucky's never met Stark before so why would there be an issue? But Steve stays silent so I sigh and go one. "And I'm kind of…nervous to see New York city. Our city, you know. I wonder if anything from…from our time is still there." My throat feels kind of thick, like someone's force-fed me a jar of honey. "Where my dad is b-buried, you know."

Dear God, are those tears? No. _No_. Make them go away, Fizzy. Make them vanish. I swallow and wait till the traitorous salt drops have vanished back into my eyes. But then I let out a sniff. _Drat_. I didn't mean to do that. Now Steve must know something is up. I start babbling to change the subject: "And, I mean, I'm also kind of scared of going up in a plane. I'm excited but I'm also freaked out because what if the pilot dies? Or falls asleep? What if we hit something? What if the engines stop spinning? What if a wing breaks off?"

"Victoria, planes are safer these days," Steve says. "They're not so fragile. It would take a _lot _for a wing to break off. And even if a pilot goes to sleep, the plane can fly on autopilot."

"Auto-_what_?" I ask.

"It can fly on its own," he explains.

"How?" I ask in fascination. "Who guides it?"

"Uh…I'm not exactly sure how it works," he says, "to be honest. I just know it exists and people sometimes use it."

"Okay," I say, "but what if one of the engines stop spinning—"

"Victoria, stop!" Steve says. "Calm down. None of that is going to happen. Planes aren't so simple these days. You need to stop thinking about things in the past," he says with a hint of irritation in his voice. "Stop panicking."

Well then. I contemplate getting up and punching him in the face but in the end I decide on stiffly and coldly saying, "Okay, sorry, I'll stop talking now," and I turn over and angrily face the sofa side, turning away from him. How dare he tell _me _to stop thinking about the past? That's literally all he's done since he woke up from the ice. He hasn't even had my excuse of homelessness and he's still lived a pathetic life of solitude and depression. The nerve. Well, at least I don't have an apartment full of lame sadness and no personality. I mean, not that I have an apartment at all. Or any living space or home of any sort. But if I did, I'd put some personality into it. Maybe I'd get a disco ball. I've seen photos of those and I wonder why they went out of style. They look fun.

I'm so wrapped up in my angry interior decorating thoughts that I don't even notice Steve whispering my name until he reaches up and taps me on the shoulder. "What?" I hiss.

"I'm trying to _apologize_," he says. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that, especially when I've lived in the past a lot. For people like us…it's kind of hard not to. Your anxiety was just making me anxious too so I snapped at you."

I try to hold a grudge against Steve for a moment but eh, it's too much effort, so I roll back over to face the ceiling again and say, "It's whatever."

He laughs. "You actually sound like someone from this decade."

The last decade, actually. He has no idea that I'm mimicking the main character in that nineties movie called _Clueless_. Such a fun movie. I didn't understand half of what they said but I still liked it anyway.

"Okay, but if you tell anyone I'm afraid of flying on a plane—" I start.

"Let me guess…you'll kill me?" Steve finishes.

I smile into the darkness. "You're catching on, young grasshopper."

"You're unbelievable, you know that? Go to sleep."

We lay in silence for ten minutes and then suddenly I break the silence again. "Okay, but what if something gets stuck in the engines and—"

"Go to sleep, Victoria."

* * *

Eventually I do fall asleep but my phone's alarm wakes us up at six a.m. and it feels like I've only been asleep for three hours. Probably because I _have _only been asleep for three hours. My eyes feel like sandpaper and I want to fall back asleep and never wake up. Who needs to go on an airplane anyway? Unreliable tin birds, if you ask me. And Bucky can make do with a malfunctioning arm…right…?

"Victoria." Steve yanks my blanket off me and I yell, "NO!" and jerk upright, slamming my hand as a knee-jerk response. As it so happens, I hit the jerk in the knee. It doesn't seem to hurt him, however, and he says, "Come on, get up. We need to get moving. If we're late, Stark will probably call the plane back. He would love for the chance to pull a stunt like that."

"You really hate this guy," I remark as I pull a brush through my hair and eat a piece of toast while also trying to pull on my shoes. Seeing as how I don't have three hands, it's not going too well.

"I don't hate him," Steve says, "but yeah, we don't get along. You'll see for yourself when you meet him." He suddenly freezes mid-pouring himself some orange juice and slowly says, "Unless you get along with him because you're similar to him…" The horror and grief in his voice is evident. Clearly the thought of me being similar to Tony Stark is upsetting to him.

"Is Stevie jealous?" I ask in delight. "Don't worry, you're my best friend, not Tony Stark." I just won't mention that I asked Tony Stark to adopt me. Even if it was a joke.

Steve gives me a look of utter disgust at me calling him _Stevie_. Right. Will not be doing that again.

Bucky slowly staggers into the kitchen when Steve and I are all dressed and breakfasted and ready to go. He's dressed in clean clothes but they look rumpled and I have the strong suspicion that he slept in them last night. He's rubbing his eyes with have shadows underneath them and I wonder if there was a third person last night who wasn't able to sleep. It's a lonely thought, that he spent his sleepless night alone while Steve and I had each other. Then again, I'm not sure Bucky would have talked to us even if we tried.

"Ready to go?" I ask pleasantly.

"Yeah," he says in his deep, emotionless voice.

"Good, because you don't have time for breakfast," I say. "Come on, you can eat later." I reach out and grab his metal arm to yank him out the door. I do it instinctively, without even realizing, and before I know what's happening, he's let out a hiss of pain and shoved me away so hard I slam into the wall and pain explodes up my back. Steve throws himself in front of me like a human shield in a split second and advances upon Bucky with wary steps, saying, "Bucky, calm down—_right now_." His voice is full of serious authority. He's the Captain now.

Bucky is breathing heavily and flexing his arm, wincing and gritting his teeth. I can hear strange clicks and creaks coming from his arm. "Sorry," I say, in shock from getting thrown into the wall. I'm not normally one to apologize but the sudden speed and violence of the situation has stopped my obstinacy in its tracks. "Sorry, I—I completely forgot about your arm—sor—"

"It's _fine_!" he bursts out, probably to put an end to my stupid babbling. There's a pained silence in which Steve slowly steps away, carefully watching Bucky to make sure he doesn't attack me again, and Bucky covers his eyes with his normal hand for a moment, rubbing his temples. "I mean—" He sighs. "It's fine. Fine. Sor— I didn't mean to hit you. Everything's fine. Right?"

"Yeah, it's good," I babble, relieved that the situation hasn't escalated any further. "No harm done." Except to my shoulder blades and back, which hurt like _hell_, but hey, who needs to know that?

"Victoria, you fine?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, I'm great," I say, giving a pained grin and ignoring the pain shooting up my back and reverberating down my spine. I don't want to make Bucky feel guilty over this. It was my fault, after all. And that's not something I admit often. "Dandy. Let's go, shall we?" And I grab my bag and march out the door, my back ramrod straight.

Steve drives us in the car that Natasha dropped off for him and the GPS guides us to an private airplane hangar on the outskirts of the city, about a forty-five minute drive from Steve's apartment. It has a gated entrance but once the guard sees Steve's face, he immediately lets us in. I don't know if it's because he recognizes Steve or if Stark has prepped the guards in advance for who is arriving. We park in the covered car garage outside and then head into the only hangar that's open (there are five in total). It's beautiful, a massive structure made of gleaming chrome and silver paneling and bars criss-crossing on the roof. A small private jets waits inside. It's shiny and has the words STARK INDUSTRIES painted on its body in bright red paint. A set of tiny stairs lead up into the plane. A man lounges by the plane but he springs up when he sees us. I feel Bucky tense next to me and I gently take his human hand for just a moment. It's large and sweaty and hot, as if he still has a fever. For some reason, he lets me hold his hand. I give it a hard squeeze and then let go. I don't look at him but I feel him relax slightly next to me.

Sometimes I think you just need some human contact.

"Mr. Rogers, Ms. Marsden, Mr…" The man looks at Bucky in confusion. Stark obviously doesn't know Bucky's name.

"Barnes," Steve says. There's no point hiding it now, not when Tony Stark is going to meet him.

"Well then, good morning," the man says. "I'm Captain Morgan. I'll be your pilot for this flight." He gestures up the tiny stairs. "I'll take any bags you have."

"It's fine, we'll keep them," Steve says. "No crew to help?"

"Not a flight this short, unfortunately," says Captain Morgan, "but I assure you, I am more than qualified."

"Oh, that's not what I m—" Steve breaks off. "Never mind. Thanks for…piloting us." He heads up the stairs and I sweep my hands in a grand gesture, motioning for Bucky to go up next. He gives me a suspicious look but slowly follows Steve up the tiny steps into the small plane. I guess I sort of deserve the look. I'm not quite sure Bucky may not bolt at any moment so I don't quite trust him.

I climb up the stairs and enter the plane. And then I stand there and stare around in awe, my mouth fallen open slightly. I can't even begin to describe how strange and new it is. It's a long and narrow body with tiny little booth seats lining each side—two on each side, so eight seats in total. Each set of seats has a tiny little table in between them. The walls and thin carpeting of the plane are cream-colored and new-looking golden lights gleam up top. The seats look like new tan leather and the table tops gleam marbled brown and cream and tan. The whole place is small and cozy and very expensive-looking. A silver box is set into the back behind one set of seats and it looks like a mini-fridge. I can stand upright but Steve and Bucky both

"You're drooling," Bucky says suddenly (a bit rudely, in my opinion) and I snap my mouth shut and ignore my burning cheeks. I know he doesn't care about apparently anything but come on, _he's _from the past too and I'm pretty sure any HYDRA plane he's ever been on hasn't been a luxury plane. Why isn't he freaking out over all this?

Captain Morgan climbs into the plane and closes up the stairs and the tiny doorway. I hear a solid mechanical sounding _thunk _as the door locks automatically. He enters the pilot's area—what's it called again? A cockpit?—and slides a tiny door shut so he's blocked off from the rest of us. His voice suddenly comes through a few speakers set into the walls, startling me: "Take your seats, lady and gents, and buckle up. Take off in five minutes."

Bucky slouches in a seat at the very back. I see Steve take a step towards him but then Bucky gives him a dark stare and Steve swings around and throws himself into a different seat on the opposite side of the plane. My eyes narrow slightly. So even Steve is afraid of setting Bucky off. Honestly, the more aggressive Bucky acts, the more I feel like I want to put him in his place. I want to push his buttons, make _him _uncomfortable, show him that he's not allowed to be this threatening and scary. I would probably make the worst nurse or doctor ever because I clearly am not caring enough about his situation or state—but honestly, _enough _is _enough_. I've received several beatings from him so far and I'll keep receiving them if I have to; I just will _not _let him intimidate me.

Even though he totally does intimidate me. But that's a secret. Shhh.

Victoria might be a little nicer to Bucky. But I'm Fizzy right now. The more aggressive Bucky seems, the more aggressive I myself become. I stomp over to where Bucky is sitting. He stares darkly at me as I approach, hoping to scare me off, and I glare at him. No one bosses me around. I drop myself into the seat opposite of him and then cock my head slightly and raise an eyebrow at him. It's a clear challenge: _What now, huh?_

"You'd think," he says, "that you'd have learned to stay away from me after getting attacked by me multiple times."

"Oh, you'd _love _that, wouldn't you?" I challenge. "You'd love for it to be that easy to push me away? Well, sorry to burst your bubble but it won't be that easy."

He looks down at his lap for a moment and I see a slightly incredulous expression on his face as if he can't believe who I am. Then he looks up and gives a faint smile. Accentuated with his dark shadows and dead eyes, this expression still looks kind of scary and sad. "Interesting. You've adapted to my new self easier than St—him." He nods to Steve, who is pretending not to listen but is obviously listening. I can tell by the way his shoulders stiffen when he hears Bucky mentioning him.

"He wants me to be my old self more," Bucky says. "I can see it when he talks to me. But you—you miss me but you accept this new me." He sounds a little fascinated.

I shrug. "I've done some changing of my own, as you know, so I guess I'm more open to changes."

"I like the new you," Bucky says. I look up, startled, and see a spark of something in his eyes. It looks like…admiration? It dances in his eyes, turns the corners of his mouth up for a moment, before it's gone and he looks confused and hollow again.

"I can't keep up with your mood changes anymore," Steve grumbles. "One second you want to kill everyone—the next second you're _accepting _Victoria. You're nicer to her," Steve accuses him, though in a good-natured way. "I've noticed. Why?"

Bucky scowls at Steve. "She's easier to deal with."

Steve's mouth falls open and just then the plane's engines roar to life. "What?" Steve says. "_Victoria_ is easierto deal with? Are you kidding? The world's gone crazy. What the… I need a nap." Steve closes his eyes and covers his eyes with his hand, looking exasperated, and tries to go to sleep.

"I think you just destroyed Steve's world," I remark.

Bucky looks uncomfortable. "I didn't mean it that way. You're more annoying than him. It's just… He's so…"

I think I get it. Steve is so obviously _good_. He's not stained like Bucky and I am. Bucky may not have chosen to do with he did as the Winter Soldier—but he still did it. And he has to live with that guilt, just like I have to live with the guilt of what I've done. We both have seeds of darkness in us, heavy and angry. Steve doesn't have that. He has sorrow and loneliness and frustration—but he doesn't have that bitterness, wicked and hot like black coffee, that stains his souls and makes him feel broken and spoiled and rotten. I think Bucky notices that and feels uncomfortable around Steve. I may be more annoying than Steve (no, scratch that, I'm _definitely _more annoying than Steve) but I'm more relatable. Bucky can sense that darkness in me and he doesn't need to pretend as hard to be normal and good in front of me. A part of his defense falls away because he recognizes a part of himself _in _me.

At least, that's how I see it. Maybe I'm being too philosophical and nerdy. I don't know.

"Mean and sullen one minute, joking the next." I sigh. "Bucky Barnes, you are going to give me whiplash. When will you plateau?"

"Who knows," Bucky mumbles and then he stares out the window as the plane slowly rumbles out of the hangar with Captain Morgan calling, "Here we go, folks," over the speakers. He's gone again, receded back into his shell.

But there's no time to focus on that because sweet merciful heavens, the plane is picking up speed—it's racing down a path built into a field—I grip my armrests with sweaty hands and stare out the window as the field begins to really fly by—and then suddenly the plane takes off, heading up at a sharp incline. I feel a swoopy sensation in my stomach as if I'm falling and my ears are ringing. I press myself against the tiny window and stare in shock and awe as the ground gets further and further away from us. Soon cities and towns become a patchwork quilt of varying shades of green with slight tints of brown and yellow. The plane eventually levels out and then all I can see are clouds and blue sky as we smoothly soar through the sky.

Amazing.

"This is so cool," I breathe, practically licking the window, _that's _how close I am.

"You've never been on a plane?" Bucky asks, sounding surprised and almost normal.

"When would I have ever been on a plane?" I ask. "When I was in the 1930s and air travel wasn't very common? Or when I was a homeless person?"

Bucky is silent in response.

"I assume you've been on a plane courtesy of HYDRA," I say.

"A few fighter jets," Bucky says flatly. "Not a lot. I mostly…" He rubs his metal arm almost unconsciously and then winces when his arm lets out a grinding, clicking noise. "Mostly worked alone."

"Not a team player, eh?"

His mouth twists into a dark, bitter smile. "The Winter Soldier didn't need a team to be effective. I could kill entire groups of people on my own without backup."

A very reassuring thought. My stomach flips uncomfortably at the thought of all the people Bucky's murdered and I ignore what he's just said and turn back to the window to stare at the clouds in fascination. We're flying. _I_ am flying. I can fly things with my hands but I never thought I, myself, could ever fly.

How many people has he killed in total? I wonder. It must be around like—

No. _No_. I cannot think about this, otherwise I will be sick all over Stark's beautiful jet and he'll probably slaughter me. Or at least _yell_ at me (lest Steve beats him up if he lays a hand on me). Do not think about Bucky and murder and blood because it is not a road you want to really go down.

Think about soaring. Flying. There's not a star in heaven that we can't re—

Fine, I admit it: I've watched _High School Musical _twice in the past few days. It has catchy tunes, okay?

The flight is short—only an hour long—but Steve still manages to knock out. Exhausted by dealing with Bucky and me, poor thing. I let him rest in peace. Bucky, to my surprise, also falls asleep. I guess I expected him to either zone out or sit around and stare at things suspiciously as if the mini-fridge is going to attack him…but even he's probably realized that nothing is going to attack him _on _the plane, and if we get attacked from outside the plane…well, we're all doomed. No way to prevent that. So he falls asleep. He looks tired even in sleep but he looks more peaceful than when he's awake and I let myself smile fondly like a moron before I wipe the smile off my face and go back to staring out of the window. This may be my only chance in a long time to ride on an airplane. I'm not going to waste any moment of this already-short flight.

Clouds. Clouds. Blue sky. And more clouds. This is basically all I can see but it's still fascinating and amazing. I suddenly find myself wishing I had artistic talent like Steve because I just want to paint the sky I see. Unfortunately I can barely draw a circle without it looking like a misshapen eggplant. Occasionally I see glimpses of the patchwork Earth below us when the plane dips low or when the clouds thin out and it looks amazing. Such a busy, crowded planet we live on…people driving around feeling important and worthy…when we're actually all just stitches in an patchwork planet blanket. None of us are really that significant. Seeing the world from so up high, it's almost astonishing to think that tiny humans can cause so much damage and bloodshed. In the grand scheme of things…we are so small.

All too soon Captain Morgan is calling, "Alright, folks, buckle up. We'll be landing in fifteen minutes."

I ignore his instructions and get up, yanking open the door that leads to the cockpit and stepping in. I can tell my appearance has startled him but he takes it in stride like a professional, saying, "What can I do for you, Ms. Marsden?"

"Call me Fizzy," I say. "Or Victoria. Whichever you prefer."

"Alright then," he says. "What can I do for you, Fizzy?" Seeing my look of incredulous delight, he chuckles and says, "I have kids. I'm young at heart. Fizzy is more fun."

"I just wanted to…" My voice trails off. I actually have no idea why I came up here. "I just wanted to know where we're going to land," I improvise. Which is true, I guess. I haven't been to New York City in decades. Who knows how big it's gotten now? If we park far away from Stark Tower, will we have an easy way to get there? I don't want to take Bucky through crowds.

"Well, I can't land _in _the city," he says. "That's illegal. Mr. Stark doesn't care much for rules but…this is a pretty big one we can't break. There's a private hangar on the outskirts of the city. As far as I know, there'll be a car waiting there to take you all to wherever you need to go. Courtesy of Mr. Stark, of course."

"Oh. Alright."

Captain Morgan shoots me a look I can't decipher and then he says, "If you don't mind me asking…who are you? I know who Captain Rogers is, of course—but in all my years piloting for Mr. Stark, he's _never _sent out a private plane for civilians. Especially at such short notice. He's changed a lot over the years, but this is still…odd."

"Would you get in trouble if Stark knew you were asking his guests these questions?" I ask.

Captain Morgan suddenly looks worried, as if this never even occurred to him. "Oh…probably, yes."

"Don't worry," I say. "I won't tell. As for who we are…" I think for a moment for an appropriate answer to give him. I don't think _A maniacal young woman with powers who's threatening Tony Stark into helping fix her ex-assassin best friend's metal arm _is the right answer. "We're…_old_ friends," I say, allowing myself to laugh dryly at my little joke. I spare no expense when it comes to poking fun at myself. Can you tell?

"Hmmm," says Captain Morgan and that's all he says on the matter. "Well, we're going to be landing soon and you need to be buckled in. May want to head back to your seat for that."

When I step back outside the pilot's cabin, I see that Steve and Bucky are now both awake, rubbing their eyes and pushing back their hair. "Talking with the captain?" Steve asks inquisitively.

I shrug. "Just wondering where you're going to land."

"You should sit down," Bucky says suddenly.

I was planning on doing exactly that but it's a little suspicious that _he's _telling me to do so. I sit down and buckle myself in and ask, "Since when do you care about my safety?"

Bucky purses his mouth in a way that suggests he doesn't really and points out the window. "You were so wild about looking out the window—I figured you'd want to see this."

I peer out the window and my eyes nearly fall out of my head. I can see a city in the distance, rising through the clouds. It's not clear or easy to see and the skyline is a bit foreign to me but I can feel it, deep inside my heart or possibly my naval: this is New York City. My city. My home. The only place I could ever actually call home. "Wow," I breathe, my breath fogging up the glass. "New York City… It looks incredible!" I feel a thrumming, trembling rush inside my stomach, as if not only do I have butterflies but they are also swing dancing inside my stomach. My home. My apartment, the schools I went to, Durant Park, the comic store that Reggie had owned…what still remains? What's gone? Are there any remnants of my life? It feels like yesterday and yet a thousand years ago. Is my father buried next to my mother? Who buried my father? He didn't have any other family…

I look up to see Bucky staring out at the city as we head past it in a slow decline. He has a funny expression on his face. It almost looks like sorrow. He looks like he recognizes the city and recognizes that this is the city he grew up in, the city where he was his old proper self. Maybe he realizes that seeing some of his old stomping grounds may job some more memories, may help him get closer to the Bucky Barnes that he used to be.

Steve, on his part, is studiously ignoring the scene and is determinedly reading an old issue of _Popular Science _magazine that he's found somewhere and probably understands nothing of (despite having four years to acclimate to technology and modern science, Steve seems just as hopeless as I am). It suddenly hits me that Steve could have chosen to go back and live in New York City—but he didn't. He chose to stay in Washington D.C., a city that he has no connection with. Seeing New York City inspires feelings of sadness yet also hope in me…but maybe for Steve it only makes him feel sad.

Awkward, considering I'm definitely planning on dragging Steve and Bucky to every single place we ever lived at or visited when we used to live in this city.

"Alright, hold on tight, we'll be landing in a few minutes," comes Captain Morgan's voice. I tighten my hold on the hand rests as the plane swoops down at high speeds. It kind of feels like I'm floating and my stomach is lifting inside my body. A hollow painful feeling builds inside my ears and no matter how much I shake my head or breathe out my nose, it won't go away. We hit the ground hard and rocket down the runway as the deafening noise of Captain Morgan applying the brakes grinds in our ears. Considering how hard and fast we touched down, the plane slows down remarkably quickly and then we're pulling up to a full stop. We unbuckle ourselves and grab our bags and stand up. Steve bangs his head on the roof and whispers a swear word. (I'll give you a hint: it starts with "Sh" and ends with "it".) Then he looks at me and says, "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean for you to hear that."

What a gentleman.

Captain Morgan takes a few minutes to do whatever pilot-y thing he's doing and then he enters the cabin. He opens the door we came through and allows the stairs to unfold. A rush of warm, fresh air enters the cabin and he tips his hat and smiles widely. "Welcome to New York City. Thank you for flying with Stark Industries."

Right on cue, my ears pop painfully. Ouch. Well, at least I'll be entering the city with a wary heart, high hopes—and clear hearing.


End file.
